


Sharps Hour

by raven_aorla



Series: Time Out of Mind [1]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Psych Ward, Queer Character, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sexual Harrassment mention, background romantic relationships, loads of cameos and references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 48,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lafayette foils his suicide attempt, John Laurens is hoping to recover a desire to live. Alexander, his manic, bipolar roommate at Vernon Psychiatric Crisis Center, is hoping to recover some calm. </p><p>Meanwhile, Eliza is the nicest nurse ever and Angelica the best therapist, Hercules on night shift sneaks people extra snacks, Thomas soothes his migraines by playing the violin and taking cold showers, Aaron the Med Tech sighs a lot, the Tourette's duo are totally swearing on purpose, and nobody cares that George King is schizophrenic but EVERYBODY cares that he bullies James Madison and John Jay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Know a Place

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my own experiences. I do not speak for all with similar ones. 
> 
> Partually inspired by LMM's role in House M.D., as well as my intense desire to save John Laurens from that last charge.

Eliza, the day nurse, seemed nice. Not that it meant much. Everyone was nice to John when they saw the bandages and sling. He'd stopped trying to push it away. It took too much energy.

She consulted her clipboard. "You'll be in 7 with Alexander. Just past the water fountain. It's better not to call him Alex. Feel free to tell him if you need quiet, though. If he gets obnoxious, Dr. Washington can have a word with him. Dr. Washington will see you sometime tomorrow afternoon, depending on his schedule. Your first appointment with the psychotherapist, Dr. Angelica Schuyler, will be at 10 AM. If you have sharps - items that aren't inherently unsafe but could be used for self-harm - locked in the main office, you can access them from 5 to 6 PM every day, not including your first evening. Provided you have sharps privileges, of course."

"Got it," John said quietly, avoiding eye contact. He kept near the soft-hued blue walls on his way to the bedroom. Thankfully none of the patients doing some kind of worksheet around a big table in the common room looked at him.

The aforementioned Alexander was crouched on the floor between the two beds, frantically writing.

"I'm John Laurens. I prefer just John." Bam. Introduced. Like a real live human. John set his duffel bag on the bed that didn't look like a victim of aggressive, yet horizontal, interpretive dance. 

"What?" Alexander's crayon went still. He looked up from his massive stack of paper, stared for a second, and then smiled at him. "Oh. Hi. Welcome to the Men's (Relatively) Nonviolent and (Relatively) Voluntary Ward. Suicide attempt, or medication recalibration? Or the rare and exciting court order?"

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Your answer will affect how hard I try not to be an asshole." 

John toed off his shoes - loafers, as shoelaces were contraband - and curled on his side atop the covers. He'd promised Lafayette he'd stop trying to make people think he was fine. 

_"Why?" Lafayette asked after John got out of surgery, so overwhelmed that his side of the conversation wove in and out of English and French. "You survived your father's bigotry and disinheritance. You survived deployment to front lines. You're supposed to have won."_

_John was on a lot of painkillers at the time, and the best explanation his fuzzy mind could think of was: "Won the war, lost the peace."_

_If his friend hadn't tackled him in time, John would have successfully shot himself in the mouth. Lafayette's leap knocked his aim off, and the bullet hit John's shoulder instead. John had been unprepared for Lafayette bringing half a flower shop's worth of bouquets to the hospital, delivering a care basket from his wife Adrienne, and then getting in a shouting match over the phone with John's father. John felt bad for the patients on either side of the partitions until he learned they were in comas and didn't mind._

_"I don't know what to do now," John said after Lafayette gave up on reasoning with Henry Laurens. "The Army doesn't have a great track record helping with this kind of thing. I don't actively want die this very second, but I know when you're not here, when I don't have a tether, I..."_

_Lafayette kissed his cheek like John's mother used to when she was alive. "I know a place. Vernon Psychiatric Crisis Center. Small. Good reputation. They have a program for temporary stays, only for a little help to find your way again. I can make a call. Don't you dare worry about the fees."_

All he said to Alexander was: "Suicide attempt."

"Mm. Then I'll try not to be super asshole-ish. I might be here for the malfunctioning mania meds this time, but I know suicidal thoughts so well they're more like memories than ideas. My mood swings take a few months each. Not regularly enough to be a metronome. Like a wobbly pendulum. Pendulum and the pit." Alexander's rapid speech sounded casual, even cheerful, but he gave the impression of a struck tuning fork. You could almost hear the high-pitched whine of vibration. 

"If I may ask: why are you surrounded by scrap paper covered in green crayon?" There was a pile of additional paper on the shared nightstand, threatening to swamp the lamp. All the sheets were printed on one side with outdated flyers, old calendars, anti-drug PSAs, crossword puzzles, and so on. Alexander was steadily filling up the blank sides.

Alexander gestured at the heaps on the floor around him. "I don't like wasting fresh paper on drafts. They won't let me have my laptop, even during Sharps Hour, until I've been observed sleeping more than three hours in one night."

"Okay. Why the green crayon?"

"Because I supposedly 'brandished a pen at James in a threatening manner'. I maintain that I was just gesturing emphatically. Now I'm back on the lowest privilege rung - well, the one above time in the soft room. And _poor little Jemmy_ is rooming with Thomas. Vacancy opened up after John-Paranoid-Adams moved to outpatient. Adams kept accusing me of conspiring against him with George, which is ridiculous because I hate George. It's not George's fault he's schizophrenic, but it's totally his fault that he's a creep. I mean, I flirt with all the staff because for some reason they're all super attractive, and also I'm manic, but fellow patients are dealing with shit and don't need that kind of complication. You know?"

"I know." John steered his mind away from thoughts of General Lee, who thankfully got court-martialed, for unrelated reasons. Filing sexual harassment claims would have been as risky for John's reputation as Lee's. Because society is appalling.

Alexander nodded and pointed at him an affirming manner. "Anyway, it's two more days on crayons without incident before I get my hands on a goddam ballpoint again during Sharps Hour. One blameless day after that to get my own pen full-time that I don't have to sign out like a library book. I bet James and Thomas are in cahoots. They don't want me to be able to write. They want me to die from frustrated hypergraphia. I'd be the first case ever. Hypergraphia is when you write so much that doctors get concerned, by the way. I'm no longer allowed felt tip markers since they caught me writing on the walls in the shower." He gripped the crayon so hard that John worried it would snap. 

"Any reason it's a green crayon? Is that all they gave you?" John considered shifting so he wasn't putting any weight on his injury. He decided he felt too heavy to move without someone ordering him to.

"Eliza was best of women, as usual, and gave me a whole box. Even though she wasn't suppose to. Finite resources, blah blah blah blah blah. I might be taking a semester off from grad school but I'm not gonna sit around and spin my wheels. My essay about economic reform is in green for reasons I hope are obvious. The other work is tucked under the bed right now. My essay about police brutality is in RED, THE BLOOD OF ANGRY MEN." Alexander burst into song, and then switched back like nothing happened. "My list of things about Thomas that piss me off is in purple because all his shirts are purple, like, all of them. Somehow. My dirty poetry is in blue. Usually I just mark different work with little stars on the upper right corner, but hey."

John found himself smiling for the first time in...well, he must have smiled at some point while in Afghanistan, but he wasn't sure when. "You're writing dirty poetry?"

"Intermittently. I have a lot on my mind. Oh, oh, maybe you can help me. What rhymes with 'slut' other than 'shut'?"

"Uh...maybe 'glut'? But that's not a sexy word."

That's when a guy in scrubs stuck his head in the doorway. "Time for group, gentlemen."

Alexander went back to writing. "I'm busy. Thomas can whine about side-effect migraines without me there to listen."

"You don't need to write every second you're alive, Alexander."

"I beg to differ, Aaron Burr, sir. Also you're not a real medical professional with authority to tell me what's best. You're just a tech. You're just for if I need someone to hand me pills in a paper cup, or scold me for making faces at Sam during one of his rants about the government, or annoy me by letting important questions slide off you as if you're coated in teflon..."

John sat up and extended his left hand. "I'd like you sit to next to me for moral support. Sounds like a jungle out there."

Alexander stared at John for a moment before taking John's hand and getting to his feet. "Fine. Yeah, someone needs to give you the lowdown. Like, Friedrich - big guy, late 30s at minimum - and Pierre - pretty kid, 18 or 19 or something - both have Tourette's, but they rarely curse randomly like in movies. Friedrich says plenty of random stuff, but when he curses it's rarely a tic. He's a big fan of intentional profanity." 

Aaron managed to roll his eyes and sigh with relief at the same time. He stage-whispered to John, "Alex was nice to me his first day here until I refused to discuss the national debt with him." 

"It's Alexander." The offended party "gestured emphatically" at Aaron with his green crayon and flapped the single sheet of paper he'd brought along. But he also winked. John remembered Alexander mentioning that he flirted with _all_ of the staff.


	2. Treasured Possessions

John didn't say much during group therapy. He wasn't required to give his reason for being here, but he did anyway to avoid telling people individually later. Nobody batted an eye. He did get some interested murmurs when he said he was training to be a medical/biological illustrator, though. To prevent any additional pity, John added, "My right hand and forearm still work fine. The sling is just to keep me from straining my shoulder too much."

James was in a hurry to tell everyone that he managed to kiss his wife Dolley during her last visit without having a panic attack over the possibility of catching a disease from it. "Not that I think she's especially diseased, it's that I have a weak immune system," he said after coughing into a handkerchief. 

Thomas and Alexander got in a fight over whether Thomas' reclining position was taking up too much of the couch. 

"I have a migraine, man, and your voice is making it worse every second." Thomas was allowed to wear sunglasses whenever he wanted, as a concession to his hopefully temporary, highly unusual side effects. He was also wearing a purple shirt, as advertised. 

Alexander folded his arms. "So? I have vertigo and nausea from being switched from an antidepressant/mood stabilizer mix to only mood stabilizers. They're aggravated by your hideous magenta Crocs. You don't see me claiming the whole couch like I just purchased a ton of new territory."

"And of course your turquoise moccasins are the epitome of good taste. You seem pretty happy sitting with Freckles over there. That's not an insult, John, your freckles are lovely. Our problem is John Adams left the day before yesterday, and we've got John Jay..."

"Jay's okay," mumbled the man slumped in the smallest folding chair.

Aaron smoothed his frustration at the squabbling pair off his face and smiled at him. "That's very gracious of you, Jay."

"Mm."

Alexander would not be waylaid. "It's not about what I want, Thomas, it's about justice." 

George groaned. "God save us from rival manic bipolar patients. You wouldn't even want to sit together anyway! I wish you two were my hallucinations. Then you'd be gone as soon the incompetent doctors here find antipsychotics that actually work."

"I wish you'd stop singing Beatles songs off-key in the middle of the night," Alexander retorted. "And don't diss the doctors. They're doing their best."

"Can we get back to our mental health goals now?" Thomas asked, winding his fingers through his fluffy hair.

James sniffled and fiddled with his handkerchief. "Please?"

A smaller conflict ensued after they resumed talking about their successes and struggles. Friedrich kept poking and tapping things - his own chair, the sofa armrest, Sam - until George demanded to swap seats with him. Sam squeaked an anxious thank you and looked at George like he was royalty. Friedrich calmed down once he was next to Pierre, even though Pierre was currently suffering from echolalia and kept repeating everything Friedrich said. 

Franklin casually mentioned that he was schizophrenic. He spent the whole meeting amiably chuckling at everyone. Except John and the nearly-silent Jay. There seemed to be a code of honor to be gentle towards suicide survivors. 

Then Eliza announced that it was 5 PM.

Sharps Hour involved a scramble for various treasured possessions that Aaron and Eliza returned for the duration. Friedrich was barred from participating today, in minor disgrace like Alexander was. "I tossed a plastic knitting needle at - BAYONET - fucking George, the shitstain. In his general direction. Wasn't aiming to hit him. BAYONET. Bayonet. Bayyyyyonet."

"Bayonet fucking George the shitstain," Pierre repeated solemnly, clutching his iPod and its hazardous glass and headphones to his chest. He tilted his head and Friedrich followed him off to the fenced-in lawn, which was open to all of them except during lights-out. 

Eliza came over to sit beside Alexander and John at the big dining table. She put a blank sketchbook and a slender felt-tip pen in front of John. "My sister Peggy is an art therapist who works with this ward twice a week. She keeps a stash of supplies in my locker for me to give to anyone left out of Sharps Hour just for being new. Promise me you won't let Alexander use the pen. Aaron accuses me of playing favorites as it is."

Alexander grinned at her. "Oh, but I am definitely your favorite, right?" When Eliza blushed and left, he watched John like his new buddy was about to perform a trick. 

James took advantage of pencil access to work on a crossword puzzle. It was slow going because he had to tap the pencil on his knee six times before he started a new word. George trimmed his nails. Sam flossed his teeth. Franklin cut construction paper with a pair of blunt scissors "to assemble a model of my concept for a hyper efficient wood-burning stove, suitable for developing countries". Jay hugged himself and stared into space. He was under ban as well.

"Yesterday Jay tried to shove a toothpick up his own thumbnail," Alexander muttered into John's ear. John covered up his wince by picking up the pen and opening the sketchbook. He wasn't sure about step two.

Thomas, still in mirrored aviator shades, accepted a gleaming violin from Aaron's hands with a hum of satisfaction. He waggled the bow at everyone. "Who's okay with me playing right now? I don't want to wait until Sally comes for music therapy on Friday."

"Fine by me," Alexander said, nonchalant. A chorus of similar answers followed. 

The one dissenter was George, but Thomas triumphantly declared, "Too bad for you; this is a democracy." He tucked the violin under his chin and began. John didn't know classical music very well and didn't recognize the tune. It was pretty.

"I'm surprised you endorsed him," John said. He realized Alexander wasn't writing anymore. The crayon and paper lay dormant on the table.

Alexander shrugged. "He might piss me off, but he's a decent violinist. Plus he's more mellow for a while after he plays. You gonna draw? What are you gonna draw? My hands are now shaking too fucking hard to write, so it's either watch you draw or watch Thomas play and enlarge his ego."

John wanted something simple enough to not require much brainpower but complex enough to make him not notice his own feelings for a few precious minutes. He also wanted Alexander to stop vibrating so hard. "If you could fetch me a dead leaf from outside, I can show you the amount of detail that would be required for a textbook diagram."

"Got it!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Etienne du Ponceau emigrated to America with Baron von Steuben at the age of 17, and was his translator and secretary during the war. In later life he became an American citizen and famous linguist. He was the first person to systematically study Native American languages, and was ahead of his time when it came to the Western understanding of Chinese characters and their use in Vietnam.
> 
> I admit I first heard of him in the amazing canon-era fic "Raise Our False Flag". http://archiveofourown.org/works/6059407/chapters/13890889


	3. If You've Gotten Up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have left/are leaving/will leave comments!

"You want some secret Oreos?" Alexander suddenly asked soon after lights-out. In the faint glow from under the door, John could see his roommate flat on his back and drumming his fingers on his chest.

"Not much appetite." John had eaten some of his dinner only because Friedrich kept nudging him and repeating the phrase 'self-care'. In another life the guy would have made a great, unusually nurturing drill sergeant.

"Me neither. I got Hercules, the night shift nurse, to smuggle me some. Then I got put on Lithium and I'm queasy and thirsty as hell. It should clear up in three or four days, but ugh. I'll probably need to refill my water bottle in the middle of the night. And pee at least twice. Sorry if I wake you."

"Planning on sleeping at all?"

"I'm not staying awake on purpose, but this is the last night they're letting me try to fall asleep at a reasonable hour on my own before they start giving me a sedative."

"Thanks for the offer. I'm sorry if I get a noisy nightmare."

"Pfft. I'm told I thrash around and wail about hurricanes. Did you hear that George smeared peanut butter all over the floor of the soft room 'in protest of his unjust incarceration' and Martha-the-tech made him clean it up with wet wipes? Thomas asked for her hand in marriage. She managed not to retch, but she must have been holding it in, right?"

(George had been sent to the soft room for an hour after he spat partially chewed mashed potatoes onto James' plate at dinner. James had a panic attack and needed a new serving of food on a different, newly washed plate. Since Vernon Crisis never withheld or delayed food as punishment, but no utensils were permitted in the soft room, George received his choice among five sandwich options. And a few issues of Reader's Digest magazine.)

"That must have happened while I was getting my basic health stats done and taking a shower," John said, sleepy. He'd gotten very little sleep at the hospital. It was quieter here, even with the drama. More contained. The evening nurse, Betsy, told him a good story about her quilting club while recording his baseline blood pressure and weight. 

"Do you need me to shut up now?" Alexander sounded sincere but saddened.

"I'm not going to reply to you anymore. But I don't mind you rambling at low volume. It's like having NPR on in the background." John wrapped the blankets as tightly around himself as he could manage. He drifted off to Alexander softly detailing the vital importance of the Coast Guard and why it deserved more funding.

_John dreamed that he was in a battle in a grassy field. He lost his gun and started attacking the enemy with a sword instead, because in the dream he was an amazing swordsman and happened to have one. Then he got a good look at a soldier he'd just stabbed and -_

Alexander was asleep when John woke. He was twitching and whimpering variations on _Mom, don't die, I need you._ John considered waking him but decided he needed sleep. 

To avoid tangling with his sling, John put his comfy cardigan on in such a way that it wouldn't slip off, but the right sleeve dangled free. Not motivated enough to put on his shoes. He didn't have a destination in mind. The hallway bathed him in periodic pools of dim light.

John made it all the way to the locked door of the laundry room before he sank to the floor and started sobbing. He couldn't remember the ending of his dream. Not that it mattered. It was only one of so many things he was upset about that he could no longer untangle and name them. 

Footsteps. A smooth, warm voice. "Are you crying over a specific external event, or because your brain says it's time to cry?"

"...Yes?"

"Would you prefer to cry in a chair and with access to tissues and caffeine-free tea?"

"...Maybe?"

Which is how he found himself curled up on Thomas' favorite couch, hugging a pillow while the nurse with the improbable name of Hercules Mulligan dragged the coffee table closer to him. Hercules plunked a box of tissues on it. "Let me go boil some water in the staff break room. Your options are chamomile or mint."

"Mint, please." John took advantage of his time alone to blow his nose to a disgusting degree. Then he couldn't see a trash can anywhere. Stupidly, that set him off again.

Hercules returned with a steaming mug and a small office wastebasket. "Don't scald yourself. Cato, the tech on duty, hasn't reported my rule-bending so far, but he wouldn't let me get away with letting one of you get hurt."

"Where's Cato?" John wadded up the tissues and disposed of them. He picked up the mug, too hot to drink from, so he could cradle something between his fingers. Tears were still sliding down his face, but by this point he could breathe normally.

"Eh, around here. He's stealthy. Probably making sure Sam isn't excavating the walls for 'Congressional spy cameras'. Sugar packet?"

"No, thanks." 

"You wanna talk about something?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll just work on my designs. You can sit there for up to half an hour until I'm required to send you back to bed. Don't tell Aaron about the tea. He's way too cautious."

"Mm." John couldn't really taste the tea, like he couldn't taste dinner earlier, but it warmed his throat and stomach. Hercules balanced a notepad on his knee, drawing what looked like outfits for paper dolls next to a long row of numbers. Eventually John got curious enough to ask, "Designs for what?"

"I have a side business where I make custom outfits for history reenactors," Hercules said, holding the notepad up so John could see it more easily. "This one's more of a challenge because the customer is a trans man who wants to pass, but doesn't want to have to bind while running around with a musket. Gotta factor in seams and drape around certain areas, if you know what I mean. These are his measurements."

"Cool." 

Crying did a wonderful job of blanking the mind after. (So could orgasm, but in John's experience sex and depression went together like chocolate and cement.) It had been a long time since John was allowed to cry. The thought made him kinda want to cry again. The meta thought made him laugh at the absurdity of being a living thing with feelings.

Hercules didn't react, just kept sketching. John blurted out, "I can draw a cross-section of a human epidermis from memory."

"Wow. You want to do it now?"

"I, um, I think I want to try sleeping. I'll brush my teeth first." 

"Good idea." Hercules took the mug from John's hand. "There's a Japanese saying. Apparently. 'Fall seven times; stand up eight.' I prefer, 'You knock me down, I get the fuck back up again.' Catchier."

"Yeah?" John got to his feet.

"Here's the thing. You don't have to get up right away. Or by yourself." Hercules paused. "That said, if Alexander's awake when you get back to your room..."

Six minutes later, John caught Alexander pacing their room and reciting the Iliad to himself. John climbed straight into bed and informed him: "Hercules wants me to tell you, 'If you've gotten up, lie the fuck back down again.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The historical Hercules Mulligan's slave, Cato, carried many of Mulligan's messages to the American troops. Cato did not break when "questioned" about Mulligan's activities. I couldn't find info on what happened to Cato after the war, but since Mulligan teamed up with Hamilton and Burr, among others, to form an anti-slavery organization, hopefully he set Cato free. 
> 
> I wish there could have been room for Cato in the musical, as he was one of the few POC whose contributions to the war were recorded.


	4. How to Derail

"I maintai' tha' forcing everyon' t'get up at 8:00's cruel an' unusual," James griped. Though it wasn't perfect, he was surprisingly articulate with a mouthful of toothpaste. Good for him that he was. He'd been brushing his teeth for at least eight minutes. He politely stepped away from one of the two sinks when someone needed it. Right now he was hovering behind John (washing his face) and Franklin (applying a mysterious substance to his bald spot). Alexander was rapping in the shower, something about convenience stores and selling a winning lottery ticket. Lots of Spanish mixed in.

There was another bathroom down the hall, designated for the Friedrich/Pierre and George/Sam roommate pairs, along with up to two more patients. John wondered if staff members regretted the combination.

"I heard a yelp a little before 6." Franklin said. He ceded the sink to James and set about polishing his glasses. "Does Thomas rise at dawn and take ice-cold showers as subtle self-harm, or masochism, or..."

James shuddered. "Shays it's healthy and helps hisz hea'aches. Not sure why he bugsh Cato for outdoor temperat-er." 

"WEIRDO," Alexander declared over the shower spray. 

When James said "forced" get up, he was being melodramatic. Breakfast started at 8:30 and you weren't supposed to eat until your vital stats had been recorded. If you'd had a really rough night you could sleep an extra hour and eat some quick cereal after your vitals. There was a relaxation/siesta hour after lunch as well.

John was on his way to the nurses' station when he heard Aaron shout, "Mr. von Steuben, take your hand out of Pierre's pants! You know below-the-belt touching is against the rules!" John kept walking. Part of him was curious but most of him wanted to get his blood pressure or whatever taken and then see if he could snag a glass of juice. He could still taste fruit juice and, oddly, cornbread.

He mentioned this to Hercules during his weigh-in. Hercules hummed thoughtfully and noted the numbers on his clipboard. "Tell Dr. Washington. You're almost underweight enough to worry him. Sit here with your left arm on the armrest, please."

"Will Dr. Washington insist on medication?" John asked as Hercules fastened the cloth cuff with velcro and started tightening it with the balloon thing. 

"He doesn't insist on it. Ever. He'll recommend it if he thinks it's a good idea and tell you the pros and cons in detail. The man's very protective of you knuckleheads." Hercules yawned. "As soon as Molly's ready to take over on vitals, I'm outta here.'

Molly was busy at the moment, sitting next to Jay on what John was starting to think of as The Couch of Emotion. She had an arm around his rigid shoulders. Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't seem to be aware of them. His voice was hollow. "My career is over. I haven't written a word I didn't hate since I...got sick. Maybe I was a shitty writer all along and finally noticed."

"Hey, writer's block sucks, and I can't promise what's gonna happen in the future. But you're selling yourself short. My wife spoke very highly of your column defending various interpretations of the Constitution. 'Finally, someone with half a brain writing for the Post,' she said. That's about as nice as she gets."

Jay turned to look at her, though he couldn't seem to make eye contact. "Who's your wife?"

"Deborah Sampson, she's a political journalist -"

"I know who she is. If you're making this up, I will hate you forever."

"I can show you my wallet photo of us at our wedding. Later. Aaron's storming over."

Hercules finished with John's vitals right as Aaron marched Friedrich and Pierre into the common room. Several guys trailed after, not so much ducklings as temporarily intrigued cats. "Molly, I need you to dock Friedrich's privilege status by another notch. He -"

Friedrich spun around indignantly. He repeatedly tugged his own right earlobe as he spoke. "I don't understand why you're only blaming me!"

"Because you're twenty years older than Pierre, and he's got both echolalia and echopraxia! Look, he's tugging his earlobe too."

Pierre immediately stopped copying Friedrich's body language and folded his arms. "Only blaming - only - blame - ugh! Mr. Burr, I'm over eighteen, and I have some control. Original sentence, listen, listen. Enthusiastic consent. Wasn't copying. The rule is stupid. It's not like we were fucking."

"Language, Pierre." Aaron sighed and kneaded his temples.

Alexander stepped out from behind Thomas. He was so much shorter that John had totally missed him. "Hey, Mr. Burr, sir?"

"Not the time, Alexander."

"Thomas told me a minute ago that he really wanted to hear about how you're raising your daughter free from traditional gender norms, and also teaching her Baby Sign." Alexander flashed a winning smile. 

The lie was the most transparent one John had ever heard. Worse than "Hey babe, shower with me so we can save the environment." Worse than "The dog not only ate my homework, but my entire Science Fair project." Even worse than "I'm not really feeling up my psych ward roommate, it's my Tourette's Syndrome making me need to put my hand there," actually.

Yet Aaron's face immediately softened. He stepped away from Friedrich and towards Thomas, who was doing his best not to look alarmed. "I don't know if you've heard of Baby Sign, Thomas, it's a great innovation to help infants start communicating before their - oh, Molly, can you take care of these guys, please?"

"Sure thing," Molly said, stifling a laugh. 

Thomas managed to flip Alexander off at an angle Aaron couldn't see. Pierre gave Alexander the hand-heart gesture. This time it was Friedrich who copied him.

Molly ushered Alexander, the chuckling Franklin, the awe-struck Sam, and the horror-struck James away from Aaron and his victim. "Okay, I'm gonna have to make you switch roommates, but I'm not gonna lecture you or reduce anyone's privilege rank. I get it. This is an emotionally intense place. People get lonely."

"Lonely," Pierre murmured, heading for the dining table.

With a glance at Thomas to make sure he wasn't about to die, Molly pulled out a chair and gestured for the wavering Jay to sit. "Unfortunately we have a policy, and there are good reasons for it. I promise. After breakfast Pierre is moving in with Jay. Pierre's always kind to Jay. Franklin is moving in with Friedrich. You guys seem to get along, or at least not hate each other. Don't get sexual again while you're here. You're welcome to go at it like bunnies after you move to outpatient treatment."

"Thank you - GUNPOWDER - Molly, we'll behave." Friedrich made sure to not sit next Pierre so he couldn't be accused of molesting him. "Gunpowder. Owder. Der, der. Guhhhhhh. Gun pow."

"Gunpowder," Pierre said as he delicately clasped his hands in front of him, making it sound insouciant and alluring. John noticed for the first time that he had a tattoo on his inner forearm, a French flag crossing a Vietnamese flag. Underneath, in beautiful calligraphy, was "la indulgence". That helped explain Pierre's name vs. appearance. 

Hercules gave John a little nudge. "It's safe to go out there. Kitty is bringing the food in a moment. Man, I'm glad I stayed the extra twenty minutes."

James shouted, "Hey, Aaron, where's George?"

Aaron paused in explanation of mainstream media's negative effects on girls' self esteem. By this point Thomas had pressed himself against a wall. "Oh my God, I need to find him." And he ran off.

Thomas took a deep breath, smiled at James, and went to sit next to him. Kitty brought in a cart loaded with food, juice, coffee, and milk. Everyone got up one at a time for Molly to take their vitals and dispense pre-food meds, and could start eating when they returned.

Alexander turned to John and leaned in close. "If you promise to eat at least ten bites, I'll tell you how to derail every one of the staff members."

John managed twelve bites of plain bread and a glass and a half of orange juice. Not so much because he wanted to know Alexander's intel, but because he was touched that Alexander cared. He ignored the conversation swirling around. 

Though it was hard to ignore Thomas chucking tiny packets of jam at Alexander whenever Molly and Aaron weren't looking (Aaron eventually found George trying to remove the grate from a heating vent. That meant soft room again.) Alexander just laughed and batted away the condiments. Friedrich eventually took all the jam packets and bitty butter pats into protective custody. Pierre slowly licked jam off his own fingers. "It's a tic, what's wrong with you?" he asked when Sam told him he was disgusting. However, he apologized when James started hyperventilating at how unsanitary it was. He switched to licking his (blunt plastic) fork.

After breakfast and taking his after-food morning meds, Alexander made good on his promise. "With Aaron it's either his daughter or racial discrimination. Which are topics I can't fault him for, even if he goes on and on. With Hercules it's inaccurate costumes in historical movies. Cato loves James Bond, both the movies and the books. Flirt with Eliza. That's all it takes to get her helpless."

"...I'm kind of gay?" John wasn't sure why he volunteered that information. Maybe he wanted to exchange something for Alexander's relentless openness towards him.

Alexander shrugged. "Compliments work too. I'm bi."

"What a shattering revelation. I never would have guessed."

"Hey, you might have reasonably assumed I'm pan. Anyway, you could try hitting on Cato, who I think is ace, but I'm not sure. He gets adorably blushy over the attention. Ask Maria about battered women's shelters, Molly about labor unions, Martha about Dungeons and Dragons, Peggy about ballroom dance, Sally about reproductive rights, Betsy about quilting -"

"I knew that one," John said.

"See, you're settling right in. Even Dr. Washington will talk about horse riding for a minute or two until he figures out what you're doing. Oh. With Angelica, don't try. Don't even try. She makes it backfire. Somehow you try to talk about philosophy and she gets you to talk about how you felt when your cousin hanged himself."

"I'm seeing her at 10," John said, fidgeting with his salvaged napkin. He'd already put his dishes back on the cart to make things easy for Kitty, but the first round of group activities hadn't started yet. Everyone was milling around, downing pills, switching rooms, helping people switch rooms, or transfixed by the room-switching scandal. 

"Oh, she's awesome, don't worry. But she's scary smart. She's never satisfied."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deborah-Sampson-as-journalist-married-to-Molly-Pitcher is from the Nightstalker series, which in turn is part of the Quid Pro Quo universe. I recommend all of it.


	5. Newbie's First Real Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you for all your kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and especially comments (for which I have a possibly unhealthy addiction). Awesome. Wow.
> 
> 2\. To be clear: John and Alexander's relationship will remain queerplatonic over the course of the fic, moments of attraction notwithstanding. John's psyche is currently about as ready to fall in love as his gunshot-wounded shoulder is ready to start competitive weightlifting. There are other ways to be close with someone.

Franklin and Alexander helpfully wrote out John's schedule for him as they waited for Morning Group to start. Well, Franklin wrote it, since he had a personal ballpoint pen. "Thou shalt not covet, young man," he said when Alexander semi-jokingly lunged for it. 

"If your personality settings weren't permanently stuck on 'avuncular eccentric with a twinkle in his eye', I would resent you so much," Alexander grumbled. He held up an orange crayon. "I'll highlight. And annotate."

"You don't need to fuss over me like this," John said, transfixed by a lock of hair that had come loose from the bun on the back of Alexander's neck.

Interesting how Alexander's soft part-smile had twice the happiness of his big grins. "I constantly do things I don't need to."

_NEWBIE'S FIRST REAL DAY_

_1\. Morning Group, Delayed But Not Superseded By THE SEX SCANDAL_

_2\. Exercise With Maria, Which John Is Missing Due to Manly Wound and Angelica's Healing Interrogations_

_3\. Lunch_

_4\. Free Hour_

_5\. Appointment with His Excellency, Doctor Washington_

_6\. Laundry/Cleaning/Medical Staff Aren't Housekeepers and Anyway Tidiness Is Wholesome and Affirming Hour_

_7\. Journaling: When Neither Music Therapy (Friday), Nor Art Therapy (Monday and Thursday), Nor Indeed Visiting Hour (Saturday and Sunday, Except by Special Appointment) Takes Up This Slot_

_8\. Evening Group_

_9\. Sharps Hour_

_10\. Meds and Dinner and Meds, Oh My!_

_11\. Social Time, aka Get Along, Dammit_

_12\. Free Hour: The Reckoning_

_13\. Clean Yourself Before You Dream, Yourself_

_14\. Darkness Falls_

Franklin carefully tucked his pen back in his shirt pocket. "You must excuse my whimsy. In the absence of lady friends or power tools, it's my best way to entertain myself."

Alexander coughed. "I think you mean one of those things at a time, but if you somehow combine them, I hope it's safe and fun for all parties." 

"What's wrong with ladies and whimsy?" Franklin winked.

Then John noticed Aaron waving him over to the office. "Thanks, guys."

Aaron indicated for John to stand on the other side of the counter where meds got handed over, rather than enter the office itself. Sam was inside, whimpering to Molly about how the top of his spine was burning and tingling, Molly gently suggesting they eliminate a bug bite or skin allergy as causes before leaping to conclusions about microchips.

"This should be a quick fix," Aaron said, smiling and bracing a clipboard against his side of the counter. "When your emergency contact filled out his part of the check-in form, he, um. Well, to be fair, the form does actually say to put your _full legal name_."

"Oh, right. I can confirm that's his genuine full legal name." John needed to remind Lafayette that American bureaucracy was not equipped for the relatively few French aristocrats still floating around. 

Aaron tapped the end of his pen on the document. "I can't put 'Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette' in the database. I can already hear the spreadsheets crying. Is there a shorter version of his name that can be used for official purposes?"

"His American driver's license says Gilbert Motier de Lafayette. He uses that a lot." John knew what Aaron's next question was going to be and really wanted to avoid it. Asking about his daughter so soon after Alexander's ploy probably wouldn't work. "Uh, how do you feel about #BlackLivesMatter?"

"Strongly." 

"How about microaggressions and the concept of model minorities?"

"People underestimate how harmful - I need an emergency second contact, John."

John stared at the carpet. Huh, there was a subtle houndstooth pattern going on. "I don't have one."

Some people looked more human when they smiled. Aaron looked achingly human when he stopped smiling. "I know how that goes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Aaron's voice went from its usual smooth silk to something more like cozy flannel. Less elegance, more warmth. "The purpose of the second contact is in case we can't get in touch with...Gilbert?" 

"Lafayette."

"Who would Lafayette want to take the call for him if we try to reach him but he's not available at the time?"

"His wife. Adrienne." 

"Can you give me any contact info for her?"

"I don't have it memorized -"

"I can provide it later, Mr. Burr," said an unfamiliar voice.

"Huh?" John turned around and saw a tall, imposing, serious-faced man. 

The man smiled at him, and he was the kind who looks more human when smiling. "I'm Dr. Washington. I found myself with an unexpectedly free half hour, and Lafayette said he wanted me to be the one to explain..."

Alexander, who'd been lurking around like he was protecting John from snipers, ran up. "Lafayette knows John?"

"You know Lafayette?" John asked both of them.

"What, seriously, the hell?" Alexander asked both the others. 

"I think I'll go start Morning Group." Aaron put the clipboard away and slinked towards the clump of patients watching Pierre write beautiful Chinese characters in felt-tip marker on Friedrich's impressive biceps. Above-the-belt touching, carefully so. 

Washington put a hand on Alexander's shoulder. It was a light, friendly gesture, but the size of the hand made Alexander look tiny and delicate. "Let's sort this out one step at a time, son..."

Alexander jerked away. "I'm not your son! If you want a son go talk to Lafayette. He's the perfect one, the one you should have tried to adopt. And I'm not just throwing a fit because I'm manic. I'd probably be more mature about it if I wasn't manic, but I have a list of grievances. Not so much with you; I realize you've done a lot and are as well-meaning as something really well meaning. It's more about the entire situation. It's itemized, and in fucking brown crayon."

"I'm sorry. Alexander." Washington now looked so uncertain that John took pity on him.

"You can brief me when it's time for our appointment, Doctor. I think Alexander and I would benefit from joining the group right now." John's curiosity could wait.

Washington looked at Alexander, gave a small nod, and retreated.

Alexander's shoulders slumped. "Please don't ask for at least a few minutes."

"I won't." John looked back at the Couch of Emotion. Aaron was now sitting between Friedrich and Pierre, with everyone else dragging chairs into a circle. 

"Hey, the carpet's got a houndstooth pattern," Alexander said quietly.

"I noticed that a few minutes ago. Sometimes there's a disconnect where the carpet sections got laid down."

"May I hug you?"

John did a double-take, but the "Yes," came out without any thought at all.


	6. Badass Nellie Bly

Aaron held up a piece of construction paper covered in prompts. "When it's your turn, you have to complete one of these sentences. It's fine to say 'pass' as long as you participate in at least two. I'll start. 'Today I feel...sleep-deprived.'"

"Today I feel...wronged," Thomas said, making the "I've got my eyes on you" gesture at Alexander. John wondered if Thomas planned to retaliate for being made Aaron-bait. Well, beyond the condiment tossing earlier.

Jay said "pass" for that one. So did George, who'd just been escorted in by newly-arrived Maria. 

Franklin was chosen to start the next round, "One thing causing me distress or anxiety is...that my voice Poor Richard is back, and he's distracting me with crude quips and faux-losiphy. Like 'fish and guests stink after three days' and 'he who lives upon hope, dies farting'."

"I like those," Friedrich said. "Hm. One thing causing me distress or anxiety is...thinking of how my dog is handling my absence."

Sam drifted over and took the empty spot next to George in time for the next round. "One thing I feel positive about is....Molly discovering that my shirt tag was irritating me, so it was an easy fix."

"One thing I feel positive about is that Deborah Sampson liked some stuff I wrote. Maybe." Jay moved back and forth in the only rocking chair, sounding thoughtful.

"I feel positive about today's weather," George offered, magnanimously. 

"One goal for today is...arrange my friend's visit on Saturday." John knew Lafayette would pout and wail if he couldn't see John ASAP, though the mysterious relationship with Washington was a whole new factor.

"One goal for today is figure out what Pierre wrote on me."

"Only nice things, Friedrich. One thing I'll do after I leave is renew the lease on my apartment."

Everyone paused so James could take a puff from his inhaler. "One thing I'll do after I leave is take my stepson for lunch and a movie. Dolley can have a well-deserved spa visit." James wrapped the inhaler in its designated Ziploc bag and returned it to its designated compartment of his designated bag of medical stuff. 

"That's actually really nice. I'm not going to lie," Alexander said. John wasn't sure whether to feel sad or amused by James' look of surprise. "One thing I'll do after I leave is enter the Try4Bly lottery and try to win a ticket to 'Bly'. Have you heard of it?"

John shook his head. This round was the worst. He couldn't imagine what he'd do after discharge. He couldn't imagine much of what he'd do fifteen minutes from now. "Tell me about it."

Alexander either missed George's groan or was ignoring it. "It's a rap musical about the life of turn-of-the-century writer, inventor, industrialist badass Nellie Bly, who did stuff like going undercover to expose abuses in a mental asylum, and was Pulitzer's right-hand-woman. She was first person to go around the world in fewer than 80 days. Only two of the actors in major roles are cisgender. I want to see it like burning."

Thomas languidly cracked his knuckles. "I've seen it four times." 

"You have not. You're just trying to wind me up."

"The choreography is amaaaaazing."

Pierre said, "The choreoooooooography is amaaaaaaaaaaaaaazing," and performed an exaggerated imitation of Thomas' knuckle-cracking. 

"Gentlemen..." 

"Oh, but Mr. Burr, didn't you say I'm a helpless teenager who's doomed to copy others without - choreography - having - choreo - agency?"

"That's not what I said -"

Maria came up behind him. "Mutiny, Aaron?"

"The situation is under control."

"Uh huh. How about I gather up everyone who wants to go to the grounds beyond the fenced-in yard, and you escort John to Angelica's?"

"Thank you." 

Alexander gave John a quick one-armed hug, careful of John's bad shoulder, and whispered, "I'll explain the Thing after lunch. Focus on yourself."

As Aaron led John away, Maria announced to the group, "You should cut Aaron some slack, guys. His wife just got my ex-husband put away on assault and extortion charges."

"Shit, really?" Friedrich asked, delighted.

"High five!" Pierre declared, stretching up for one.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," George, of all people, chimed in.

Alexander made an intrigued sound. "Does that mean it's okay for me to pay you a visit later?"

" _Alex_ , you are appalling!"

" _Tom_ , I heard you tell Sally you've always wanted to be a sugar daddy!"

Aaron swiped his ID card to unlock the ward doors, muttering. "I like working here. I like working here. I really do completely definitely like working here. So much better than being a paralegal. So much better."

"Your wife's a lawyer?" John asked. It felt like at least a week since he'd walked down this beige hallway with his duffel bag, despite it being less than 24 hours.

"Mmhm. We started dating when I was on the defense team for someone she was prosecuting. A bit awkward. I was thinking of switching careers anyway." Aaron stopped at one of the nondescript beige doors. "Here we are. She'll call someone to walk you back when you're done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have his therapy session with Angelica be in this chapter too, but it's going to be so wrenching that I've decided it needs its own.


	7. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was totally gonna devote my writing time today to making John Laurens sob over his unfortunate life and even more unfortunate coping strategies. But all of you have enabled my Nellie Bly rap musical concept, and this happened. 
> 
> At least we also get a little Alex POV and some of his thoughts on John while I'm being self-indulgent.

The deck and little grassy yard where the patients in their ward could hang out was much smaller than this section of greenery where Maria was supervising them. They had to stay within her line of sight, and operate under standard ward rules, but otherwise they could do their thing.

Alexander had joined Friedrich's calisthenics several times. It was a great workout and involved a lot of entertaining German shouting. Today, instead, he joined Pierre on one of his contemplative strolls around the outer path of shady trees. Though if they ran into Thomas and James strolling in the other direction, no way was Alexander stepping aside. They could both enjoy the German shouting. 

"You checked with Sally, right? Music therapy flash mob is go?"

Pierre grabbed a leaf off a shrub, held onto it for a moment, then let ago again. He repeated this several times with several leaves as he talked. Unlike with James, Pierre continually acquired and discarded all sorts of new compulsions. Kept things fresh. "Music therapy flash mob is go. I don't think - think - flash mob - uh -"

"You wanna code switch with French?" Alexander was self-conscious about how his French wasn't nearly as good as his Spanish, but that just meant he should practice. He knew code-switching between at least two of his four languages helped Pierre past verbal blocks/echo urges and restricted his tics to physical. 

" _Merci._ " Pierre cheerfully flowed back and forth from English to French from then on, except when he was quoting. And except the one time he accidentally said a sentence in Vietnamese. Or called Alexander variations on 'my friend' in Mandarin. They discussed Pierre's feelings on the Sex Scandal first, and Alexander carefully verified that his 19-year-old buddy's wishes weren't being overwhelmed or overridden. ("I'm only 19, but my mind is older. Like Nellie Bly sings in 'My Chance'.") Pierre asked about Alexander's true feelings regarding James' defection to the room of Mr. Southern Fuckin' Republican. They compared notes about any other ways of confusing or confounding the staff if they needed it again. Alexander hadn't known that Phyllis, who worked weekends, was into poetry.

Then it was down to real business. Pierre's walking speed picked up, as if to shake off eavesdroppers. "Do you think, after his therapy, you could ask John if he knows how to beatbox? Or at least clap with rhythm? Based on our singalong last week I don't think anyone else here besides you and me can do either of those. He already seems fond of you."

"Not like you and your now ex-roommate, heyo! Seriously, though, I can ask him. If nothing else it'll help him feel accepted."

"Goose!" Pierre wasn't tic-ing. There was an actual goose nibbling on grass a few feet away. A few feet further than that, Sam had halted his frantic pacing and was eyeing the goose with great trepidation. 

Alexander waved at Franklin and Jay, who were the only people to accept Maria's invitation to try some simple yoga poses. Maria's butt looked great in those pants...dammit, he shouldn't think of her as a sex object. "I really wanna do 'Rush For It', but Elizabeth Bisland goes way past my range when she gets to the part about Nellie beating her 'round the world trip. How about 'Hopeless'?"

" _Wo de pengyou,_ I don't want to tease Friedrich too badly by duet-ing with you about how I'm hopelessly in love and want you to help run my steel mill. Are the show creators okay with cisgender people playing characters from Bly? Because I love 'You'd Better Leave', but I don't think either of us is suited for Dictator Porfirio Diaz."

Fortunately Alexander had wondered about and researched this very thing back when he had Internet access (those with privileges were allowed a cumulative forty minutes of internet per week, otherwise it was considered a distraction). "In brief fan tributes and eventual school productions it's totally fine. It's still only acceptable for Helen Keller's cameo in 'The Parade of 1913' to be performed by someone able-bodied if she's played by a show's sign-language interpreter. Otherwise she should be mentioned but not appear. It's in kinda bad taste to have Ida B. Wells not played by a POC, too, I mean the whole point of her big song is that the other suffragists don't want African American women to be part of the narrative." 

"Talk less, please. Limited plotting time."

"Sorry. How about 'Guns and Squids'?"

" _Wo hen ke ai de pengyou,_ there's no way either of us can rap as fast as Jules Verne." Pierre paused. "That means 'my really adorable friend', by the way."

" _Gracias._ I suppose. If John weren't suicidally depressed, and also knew the musical, and also could sing soprano -"

"If he were basically a different person."

"Uh, yeah." Alexander realized how unwelcome an idea that was. He'd unpack that feeling later. Though maybe not with Angelica. She might get the wrong idea, given the track record he'd outlined for her in their sessions. His whole 'rushing into infatuation that soon became neediness because he was really bad at self-care' thing. He didn't want to kiss John, at least not John-as-he-was-now. He wanted to wrap him in a blanket and pop in a DVD of My Neighbor Totoro. At most, it might be nice to stroke his hair to help him fall asleep. "I was going to say that then we could do 'The Suffragette Sisterhood', but that was way too many hypotheticals. 'Stay and Survive' is an amazing number but triggering as hell. Especially since we're patients in what literally was once a scary madhouse a century ago. Ooh, how about the one just before it?"

"You mean 'Pulitzer, Sir'?"

"Do you know it by heart?"

Alexander's appreciation of Pierre's appearance was purely aesthetic. He wasn't personally drawn to arrestingly pretty twinkishness. Still, that was the most gorgeous little snort and eyeroll he'd ever seen. "Um, yeah? What kind of Blyndsided do you take me for? We can try a round. You should be Nellie. When I sing, or at least sound like I'm doing slam poetry, I'm tic-free, but somehow fast rapping makes me worse."

"Yeah, Pulitzer only really raps when he's furious. Let's do it. We can repeat it later." Alexander looked around to see that no one was in easy earshot. Okay, George might be, but first of all he was busy stomping on an anthill. Second of all, he'd be unlikely to appreciate the surprise. Alexander cleared his throat. 

_Pulitzer, sir, I'm brilliant, resilient, and since I left Pittsburgh, I'm penniless._  
_Let me join your paper, Pulitzer, sir, I won't settle for any less._  
_I spent six months in Mexico, called out a tyrant, fled the place._  
_But my boss could only see a pretty face, not what's in my head._  
_No matter if I was defiant, no one listened to what I said._  
_He ignored my passion, assigned me art and fashion, consigned to "ladies' pages"._  
_My ambition's wide, my mission to decry shit like oppression and unfair wages!_  
_Pulitzer, sir, I won't be left off stages. I won't abide being set aside_  
_Until I end up some guy's bride; not a person, Pulitzer, just a prize._  


Pierre gave Alexander a thumbs-up. And then an index-finger up. He seemed about to work his way through all his fingers, but was able to settle them as he sang. 

_I've heard of you, Cochrane, and there's no mockin'_  
_What I know you can do. Stay ten days in a madhouse,_  
_Get the scoop, we'll see it through. Expose their shame_  
_And your penname will spread its wings and fly._  
_I say, Miss Cochrane, there'll be no stoppin' the rise of Nellie Bly...  
_

He was cut off by Maria calling them all in for some mild aerobics, and that this was highly, highly, highly encouraged. Alexander hoped John's wound wouldn't keep him from participating in the gentle parts of the next exercise opportunity tomorrow. All of his subsequent sessions would only be half as long, after all. The sunshine would be good for him.

"You know, that's the most straightforward conversation I've had with you. Maybe you should try communicating exclusively in quadrilingual opera."

Pierre laughed. "If someone will write me a brilliant script with everything I need, sure. Let's go see how much we can offend Thomas with body language alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Lafayette, for plot reasons, can't be in the ward with them, Pierre seems to have assumed a Lafayette knock-off role. This was not the original plan but I'm okay with it. Gotta love characters so obscure they can function like OCs. 
> 
> The weekend nurse mentioned in this chapter has the full name Phyllis Wheatley. Check the historical one out if you don't know her - she spelled it Phillis, but I went with the more common modern spelling.


	8. The Manatee Plushie Will Not Judge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings exclusive to this chapter:
> 
> Discussion of/Reference to  
> \- Gaslighting  
> \- Self loathing  
> \- Possibly-interpreted-as emotional abuse  
> \- Abortion  
> \- Internalized homophobia
> 
> Really severe emetophobics might need to exercise caution, but there's nothing "onscreen" or detailed.
> 
> Let me know if I missed one. The rest of the fic can be enjoyed without reading this chapter, if that's what you need to do.

Angelica's clothes were softly colored, a coral cardigan and pink blouse over cream slacks. But there was nothing soft about her sharp gaze. Good. John's history wasn't a good place for a soft person.

"Nice to meet you, John. Here's my standard logistics speech. You're welcome to flop on the couch, sit in the armchair, pace in little circles, or curl into a ball on the carpet. Whatever's most helpful to you. Make use of the box of tissues as needed. I have mini water bottles in a mini fridge tucked under the couch, available on request, or if you start getting so hoarse it messes with my comprehension. The manatee plushie will not judge. Try not to get snot on it. Same with the blanket. If the potted plants make you sneeze or disturb you for some reason, I'm willing to move them. Adjusting the blinds is okay; please don't fiddle with or close them." She angled her swivel chair to face him when he settled into the armchair. She balanced a notepad on her left forearm and had a pen all ready to go. 

"Got it."

"The most important thing is that I need you to be honest with me. I am legally required to report any plans for violence against self or others. Reporting suicidal ideation or violent fantasies is at my discretion. I also must report anything involving the ongoing or recent abuse of a minor. Certain criminal cases might demand a subpoena, but I will not volunteer that information. All other things are utterly confidential. Unless you sign an optional release form, your psychiatrist will only hear my thoughts on your needs."

"Got it." John decided he'd throw pride out the window from the start and grabbed the manatee. He moved the tissues near him. He also preemptively looked for the wastebasket to avoid stressing about it later. The patch of sunlight falling on him was kind of nice. 

"Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"Not really. I lost a lot of sensation there after HQ was bombed and a bunch of shrapnel got in it. That's why I only spent about eight months in Afghanistan. Physically unfit for duty after that. Never saw combat but somehow got blown up anyway."

She made an interested noise and jotted that down. "Did you do physical therapy?"

"A bit. Got most of my range of motion back, but lost a lot of agility and strength."

"Have you had any form of non-physical therapy?"

"A few high school guidance counselor meetings. They didn't get very deep because I was in the closet and terrified my father would find out, so I didn't talk about it. Made it all sort of pointless 'cause at the time it was the biggest of my issues. I also spent a short time at a place much less nice than this after my first suicide attempt. They let me go super quickly because they needed the space for 'people who have it worse'." 

Angelica shook her head. "I understand budget and logistical limitations. I've worked in places like that. But I wish I could talk to whoever said that to you and tear them a new one. Anyway. This is not about my feelings. It sounds like you're more familiar with physical therapy than effective psychotherapy. This is my last little lecture before I switch to active listening. With your shoulder right now, and I assume on both occasions, you spend a lot of time carefully keeping it wrapped up and not moving too much."

"Mmhm." This office had a potful of happily growing ferns. John had always liked ferns. He liked how they seemed fully formed from the start and simply waiting to unfurl. If he'd achieved his goal he'd have never seen a fern again. Unless somehow Heaven was real after all, and they let him in, and there were ferns. 

"John, I need you with me."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. That's a reminder, not a rebuke. Your physical therapist made you take the bandages off. And made you move it and twist it, push it and pull it in ways that hurt. You had to exercise a part of you that just wanted to be still and left alone. We're here to put your mind to work. If you accept one of my recommendations for an outpatient therapist, or find one on your own, they will continue to do it. The psychiatrists are the surgeons, picking out the shrapnel and reducing your pain so you can bear to start healing. The nurses and techs, and to a certain extent your fellow patients, are your sling and bandages, holding you in place as your muscles knit back together. Keeping you from further damage."

The manatee would not judge. John flopped one of its flippers around, since he'd spent so much effort in his teen years curing himself of nail-biting. It was an acceptable substitute.

Angelica slowed down, let some gentleness creep in. "I'll ease up if it turns out I need to, but if you want any revelations, you need to embrace that hurt. Lecture done."

"Yay?"

"When was first time you harmed yourself? Or wished yourself harm? Not necessarily death." 

Deep breath. Another deep breath. 

Then John told her about when he was ten and found an injured turtle in a pond near his house. His mom helped him put in a lined shoebox with some water and turtle food the housekeeper fetched from the nearest pet shop. When it died anyway, his mom held him. Then his father scolded her for encouraging tears he was too big for. John looked at his mother's face. How it closed off, even as she held on. That was the last time he cried where a parent could see him. He retreated and chewed his knuckles raw. Tough boys could have raw knuckles from doing tough things.

John told her about when he was home for the summer and his little brother fell off a stone wall while playing. John was supposed to be watching him. John had been watching, but not cautioned his brother enough or caught him in time. How his brother went to the ER, and had damage that took time to repair. How, alone in his bedroom that night, he made himself do pushups until he was pouring with sweat and shaking like a leaf, collapsing on the rug, limbs on fire and thoughts almost quiet. 

John told her about being ripped to pieces when his mom died. Didn't shed a tear, just stripped naked after the funeral, put on a pair of shorts in case of cops and ran barefoot into the frosty night till his feet ached and bled. Limped home. No one asked. His siblings were busy crying. That was okay because they were small, or female, or both.

John told her about the first time another boy smiled at him just so, and it wasn't like any smile he'd seen despite being mundane lips and teeth and a very tip of a very pink, impish tongue. How he refused to speak to that classmate ever again. Rubbing his own dick with ice cubes for many nights after. Trying to pray but the words turning to concrete, not only heavy but stuck, never making it out of his mouth again except as performance. 

John told her about the combination of panic and alcohol in his freshman year that made a mess of his friendship with Martha Manning. How after Martha's tearful call he sat down with her and asked what she wanted to do now, pledged his support. The tense, long, long drive to the clinic. Putting an arm around her as a shield against the spite and loathing from protesters outside it. Splitting the cost using a chunk of what his maternal grandma had left him, money his father couldn't track. She thanked him, said he'd been honorable. When she spotted him kissing his real crush a week later, she took it all back, screaming that he'd put her through hell when she'd only been an experiment. 

John explained that it was the second part, not the first part, that led him to the bridge soon after. That he'd stretched his arms out, like he was going to bungee jump, or fly. He' declared, with that dark whimsy and ironic melodrama that came with his darkest moods, that his honor would not permit him to survive the night. His honor, of course, turned out to have very little to do with it.

He couldn't keep track of when he started choking up, or when it turned to tears, then when it turned to these hideous hiccuping sobs and gasps. He stopped trying to talk. He hadn't made it to the many, later incidents, but he'd covered his first self-harm to his first self-destruct. Angelica must have asked follow-up questions, or made comments that helped steer his confessions, but he couldn't remember. All he could think of was that Hercules had been there when John's brain said it was time to cry. Angelica was here to help John tell his brain it was time to cry.

Angelica didn't say a word until John started breathing like he wasn't in danger of passing out. She used the time to catch up on her note-taking. When he'd successfully started cuddling the manatee rather than squeezing it to death, she said, "Thank you for your vulnerability."

"What?"

She put her notepad away and rubbed the pad of her right thumb. "Some people, such as yourself, are predisposed to handle stress poorly, and generate plenty on their own. Compound that with a stressful life. Compound that with having been taught to swallow your misery down and be ashamed for feeling it at all. Being vulnerable has rarely gone well for you. Thank you for it. I like it when someone helps me do my job."

"Uh, you're welcome, I guess?"

"We've actually gone six minutes over. If you're self-conscious about your appearance you can ask whoever comes to fetch you to detour. Let you wash your face a bit before rejoining the group." She smiled and pressed a small button at her workstation, presumably summoning an employee from John's ward. Her smile wasn't a sign of happiness, like most people's, or a sign of weapons-grade politeness like Aaron's default. It was acknowledgement. _You see me. I see you._

"Are you going to recommend that I try medication?"

"That's not my call, but I think it's among the things that might help you win your battles."

"Maybe stop getting shot in the shoulder."

She snorted. "Gallows humor is underappreciated. I'll see you for half an hour tomorrow, then we'll move to an every-other-day pattern."

"Thanks. Yeah." 

Eliza was the one who fetched him. She enthusiastically waved at Angelica, who blew her a kiss. "Do you need a minute, sweetheart?" she asked John as they started down the hall. 

"I think I want to distract myself with the scandals and antics," John replied. "Are you and Angelica good friends?"

"Sisters. Everyone's surprised, don't worry. Aaron's eating a sandwich in the nurse's office, but he assured me he could maintain order."

Thomas was missing from lunch, apparently because of another migraine. "Why are you barefoot?" John asked Alexander when he took the seat Alexander had saved him. And drank a bit of the lemonade Alexander poured him.

"I know Thomas didn't throw up on purpose, but I'm positive he aimed for my shoes. I scrubbed them. A lot. They're drying." 

"Try the rolls. They're incredibly bland. Perfect for depressives." Franklin nudged the plateful at him.

"Stereotype," Jay managed to say around the roll in his mouth. 

"Depressives. Stereotypes. Bland, bland...ugh." Pierre was arranging his salad into an artful little tower before he consumed it. "If you take at least fifteen bites, I'll tell you what I wrote on Friedrich."

"Am I going to get a similar - PRUSSIA - offer?" Friedrich knocked over the salt. Then righted it again. Again. James cringed and had to rotate the saltshaker counterclockwise. John had learned during his other psych ward stay that OCD was only sometimes about tidiness or cleanliness as others would understand it. It actually manifested as a complicated, idiosyncratic system the person followed to hold back horrific anxiety. He realized he'd only seen George actually mess with James' system, and settled a little more comfortably in his seat. 

Speaking of anxiety, Sam apparently had no option but to throw a pinch of the spilled salt over his shoulder and tell Satan to leave this place of healing. George was chastising one of his hallucinations for not being real, and to stop appearing regardless, but he was still able to enjoy the chicken. John obediently put a few morsels of every dish on his plate. They'd all taste the same. Might as well get all the food groups. 

"That's way too easy. I'll have to think of something else for you." Pierre winked. Friedrich's eyebrows went up. This turned into an eyebrow contest that may or may not have been voluntary. 

Alexander cautiously patted John on the left shoulder. John took the first of his fifteen bites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://calmingmanatee.com


	9. Family Discount

"You don't actually have to brief me now if this is a bad time." John was on his bed, lying on his back on top of the covers. He appreciated the concept of a free hour built into their afternoon. 

Years ago, he'd suffered from a bout of food poisoning that made him miserable for two days. The first time he managed to throw up, he wasn't okay yet, and he felt weak and wrung out. But. He knew he could rest for a while before his stomach revolted again. He knew the poison was starting to leave his body. That was the closest thing he'd previously experienced to his current emotional state.

Alex was on the floor again, but instead of writing he was organizing all his essays in several pocket folders. He'd explained upon their return to the room that he got anxious if he produced too much work at a time without sorting it. Lafayette gave him a whole rainbow of folders during his visit last Sunday. Sounded like him. "I want to. It's only fair."

"Then by all means, lead the way."

"If I were a newspaper article and putting the most basic, vital thing first, I would start with this: I became Doctor George Washington and Professor Martha Washington's foster child when I was almost thirteen. Would that be foster teen?"

"Ah." John didn't have personal insight into that realm, but he could imagine how that could lead to complicated feelings.

"They hosted Lafayette during his gap year. My senior year of high school. We became best friends in about two hours. I think he became everyone's favorite person in five hours maximum, though I'm the one he was so affectionate and touchy-feely with that nobody thought we _weren't_ dating. My prom date checked to make sure Lafayette wouldn't get jealous. Pretty funny."

"I checked with Adrienne to make sure she was okay with him basically cuddling me during a movie." John hadn't been up for relationships after Afghanistan. His hookups, during the increasingly rare times he still got some fun out of sex, rarely cuddled. He was grateful when Adrienne giggled and said surely, anyone with any sense would want to hold John. Disbelieving, but grateful.

"One time it looked like he was napping on the sofa with Washington, wrapped in a blanket together. I backed out of the room slowly. Martha put pictures on Facebook." Alexander cleared his throat. "He got into the most prestigious college in the Washingtons' easy driving distance, went back to France, married his childhood sweetheart, and practically sprinted here again with her in tow. Guy's got some sort of Arthurian legend and/or fairytale life."

John nodded, even though he was looking up at the ceiling and Alexander was looking down at sheafs of waxy scribbles. "And general conception of how the world works."

"Yeah. If he wasn't a human ray of sunshine and compassion, and wasn't so good at checking his privilege and listening, I'd call him clueless. Which wouldn't be totally fair anyway. He's dealt with some shit..."

"Dad died, mom left him to his grandparents and went off to live it up in Paris...."

"Everyone being constantly baffled over how he can be a Marquis with dark skin, like mixed heritage isn't a thing..."

"I know that feel." The assumption that someone who looked like John couldn't be from a rich family was disturbingly common. 

"So do I." Alexander affected a bro-dude voice. "'If you're Hispanic, how come your last name's Hamilton???'"

John huffed out a laugh. "I bet Pierre gets something similar. Um. Doctor Washington?"

"Right. I don't want you to think I hate him. Or them. Though if you ever meet Martha, you'd know that only an irredeemable dickhead could hate Martha. I'm referring to him by last name in this conversation because I don't want to mix George Washington with George Frederick King III. Washington's encouraged me to use his first name from the start. He sometimes does consultations for social service groups. He looked through my case file and spotted that I wasn't trying to be a bad kid and alienate all the other foster homes. He recognized that I had undiagnosed issues. By then Martha's kids from a previous marriage were all grown up and they'd learned he couldn't have any of his own. He picked me out of the litter, so to speak. It probably saved my life."

"That's really touching." A terribly awkward thought occurred to John. "I hope he isn't your psychiatrist."

"Oh, no. God, no. Never. I see Doctor Knox for outpatient, along with the three times, including this one, that I've been inpatient. Multiple psychiatrists and therapists work here. They tend to specialize in certain wards or disorders, that's all. Washington wanted to give me an allowance soon after he took me in, but I was deeply suspicious of why anyone would simply give me money. As a compromise he gave me a little job organizing his (already opened, not sensitive) mail and records. I know so much about this place. So much. Even without counting what I learned during my adolescent stay. Or my two weeks in this ward last year after one of my meds started making feel like I was covered in ants. Aaron, Eliza, and a few other staff members remember me."

"You're losing your voice."

"Right." Alexander paused for some gulps of water. His purple folder - presumably for the Thomas hate - was still clutched in his left hand. "Can you be discreet?"

"Yes. Also, of course, Lafayette knows where I live."

Alexander laughed. "He can give tactically brilliant guilt trips."

"Yep."

"So. Between you and me. Technically if you're not physically violent and have a grasp of reality you are allowed to be on this floor of Vernon. We share this floor with the female and adolescent equivalents, fyi. In reality, taxing everyone's patience like this, taxing our sanity too, should be enough to get someone kicked out of this ward. I am almost certain the reason His Taxingness is still here, when the first thing he pulled would have gotten most people evaluated for one of the upstairs wards..."

"What did he do?"

"He gave Jay a lengthy speech about how Jay would clearly never write anything again, and that this would be doing the world a favor, and that he was wasting everyone's time trying to get better."

"Shit." John wondered if Jay liked hugs, and resolved to check.

"I know. Anyway, the King family donates a lot of money to Vernon. A lot. They have a number of family members who've spent time over the years. Director Howe says we need them. Washington's been fighting Howe over this 'tyranny' for ages now, and says if the Board of Directors were willing to put an effort into finding other options that they could. Howe insists that we have to placate the Kings and would be in serious trouble without them. That they'll only accept us 'rejecting' George if he does something so outrageous there is no way to justify his presence. Their donations subsidizes our fees. It helps with the upkeep of the building and grounds. It allows for the occasional 'scholarship', so to speak."

"Like for me?"

"Maybe, I dunno. Maybe Lafayette threatened to chain himself to the gate and sing the entire score of Les Miserables on loop. I think I get a family discount?"

John started to smile. Then he felt the sudden sting of memory and regret, thinking of Lafayette holding his hand as he called 911, shivering and barely able to form a coherent English sentence. His smile vanished.

"Are you okay?"

"Temporarily, no."

"Is it something we're talking about?"

"Currently, no."

"Do you want to keep talking?"

"Definitely, yes."

Alexander immediately charged ahead. John was impressed by how well he enunciated at such a speed. Must be all that shower rapping. "Washington gets upset when I 'try to sabotage others' efforts to help'. I get upset when people try to slow me down because they're so afraid of me crashing. Martha and Lafayette have spent a lot of time getting us to stop whirling around each other in a vortex of protectiveness versus daddy issues. It's worse when I'm doing worse, mentally. The first depressive phase I had there, he didn't want me to stay in my room all the time. Wanted me to come out and try positive things. Now I see his point, but I think you know how it is."

"Definitely, yes." The only reason John was doing self-care now was because of promises to keep. Otherwise it purely felt like being that myth about a man who has to keep rolling a heavy rock up a hill, only to see it roll down. When they were done with this conversation, maybe he could ask Alexander what that character's name was. 

"Which made me lock the door. Then I climbed under the bed so that when he got the door open he had no idea where I went."

"That's actually really clever."

"He agreed once he stopped being not-mad-just-disappointed. The worst was when I was seventeen. I was in a manic phase. Martha was out of town at an academic conference, and Lafayette was spending the weekend with the other French kids in the Rochambeau exchange program. I wanted to go to an intensive educational summer camp. But I needed his permission, because I wasn't eighteen yet. He said I was too unstable at the moment, not ready for that kind of pressure. Not since I got in trouble at school a few days earlier for a protest against an incompetent student government leader that, uh, got out of hand."

John itched under his bandages. Maybe he could get someone to help him wash the area and change the bandages before dinner, rather than after dinner like yesterday. "Then what'd you do?"

"After some yelling, I ran off. I hitched a ride with a guy I was kinda dating, who unknowingly dropped me off at the house of a girl who I was kinda dating." Alexander scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Look, I'm not great at self-control and people seem to find me attractive."

"Have you considered polyamory?"

"Then I'd have be mature and responsible about my feelings. Anyway. To his credit, Washington decided to give me some time on my own to calm down. When Lafayette found out, he persuaded Washington to let me try, and called me to tell me so. So I got to go to Yorktown after all. Washington eased up a little after that. And I felt guilty for freaking him out and tried to be better."

"You said something about him trying to adopt you?"

Alexander slid his newly stuffed folders under the bed. "After the first year, he and Martha offered. They gave me some time to think about it. I did. I asked if saying no would make them kick me out. They made it clear it would not. I told them that I appreciated it but it made me feel tight in my chest. Like the difference between snuggly in bed and having a mattress on top of you. George tried to persuade me, but Martha told him that was like demanding a feral kitten to sit in your lap. So we left it alone."

John pushed away thoughts of dying turtles and tried imagining giving Alexander head scratches. 

"If Lafayette had been in the same position he wouldn't have waited for them to finish the question. They don't love him more. He's easier to love, that's all. Like, I spend two hours explaining to Washington why he should get rid of his shares in companies that use sweatshop labor, and Lafayette makes more headway in two minutes." Alexander climbed onto the bed. "The staff are gonna give me a sedative tonight. I'm willing, but. I don't know. I don't like feeling fuzzy. I don't like that I might dream and won't wake up right away. I need it, feeling stretched, non-stop, facing an endless uphill climb. Still don't like it."

"You wanna sit with me and hold hands? In honor of our chivalrously clingy mutual friend?"

"Yes." 

Alexander arranged himself gently, trying not to take up too much room, his fingers warm around John's cold ones. They sat so that it was John's good shoulder bumping against against Alexander's. John asked him about the man with the boulder.

"Sisyphus. There's an adjective based on him. Sisyphean. Like Tantulus and tantalizing. Or the verb tantalize." Alexander told John about the man who had to stand in waist-deep water and under vines hanging with juicy grapes. Whenever he bent down to drink, the water drained away. Whenever he reached up to pluck fruit, the vines bent away. 

"Is there a 'What Tormented Resident of Hades Are You' quiz on Buzzfeed?" 

Alexander smiled. "There should be. Hey, can you beatbox?"


	10. On a Personal Level

Going to Doctor Washington's office initially gave John the eerie sensation of being sent to the principal's office. Washington sat behind a large desk covered in tidy stacks of paper and files. His suit was impeccably cut and ironed. He regarded John with a benign but serious expression.

Then John visualized this same man all cozy with Lafayette. With Lafayette clinging to him like contented squirrel. He felt better. "Alexander told me about your relationship with him and Lafayette. I really appreciate what I assume was your help in getting me a spot here."

"Lafayette's talked about you a great deal," Washington said, the slightest bit of warmth underlying his words. "Didn't ever use your last name, though, which must have been why Alexander didn't figure it out right away. I'm impressed Alexander opened up to you so extensively after such a short time. Both of them are...important to me. I confess to feeling as though you are important to me by association. Not that everyone I see in this office isn't important; I mean on a personal level. I don't want to make you feel patronized or indebted..."

"I relied on my father's mercy for the first twenty years of my life. I'm, uh, I'm okay with accepting kindness from people who actually accept me. There's not a lot I can do for myself right now." John flexed the fingers on his right hand for emphasis. Lafayette would be so hurt if John threw away this opportunity. John couldn't do that to him. 

"As long as the assistance is welcome. We can negotiate how that will work as we move forward." Washington opened a folder. "In light of these connections, are you comfortable having me as your assigned psychiatrist? I won't be offended if you'd prefer to switch." 

"While I'm here, it's fine. Nice, really. I'd find a total stranger scarier. If I have a psychiatrist after I leave..." John paused. That first half of a sentence felt like saying, "If I buy a snowblower after my fiftieth wedding anniversary..." Theoretically possible but involving multiple layers of vague speculation. He knew it wasn't a logical comparison, but feelings and logic were different species that could only sometimes interbreed.

"John?"

"Uh. Yeah. In that situation, I'd want a different one." John's skin itched under the bandages. As he told Angelica, he couldn't feel much pain in that area, but he could still feel itching, and it worked overtime. "Do you think I need medication?"

Washington put on his reading glasses. "Angelica told me that you've been though a sufficient amount of stress and trauma to make a mentally typical person consider resorting to suicide. I prefer to use the term 'resort to suicide'. 'Commit' sounds like a crime."

"I never thought of that," John said faintly. 

"However: she believes your reactions to stressors are much more extreme and self-destructive than is normal or healthy. She believes you also suffer needlessly even when nothing is wrong in the exterior world, and that this has been a trend since a young age. In our conversation we both concluded that it would be worthwhile to have you more thoroughly tested for, say, major depression, though it's not a foregone conclusion. That was simply an example."

"Then maybe medication?" John noticed a small, framed photograph on the bookshelf behind Washington. It was the only picture in the office, though Washington had an incongruously adorable paperweight. It was a lumpy ceramic unicorn with a chipped front hoof.

"Then maybe medication. It will be your informed decision. Every step of the way. How do you feel about that?"

Without consciously thinking it over, John blurted out, "Relieved."

Washington nodded. "That's not everyone's reaction, but it's not unheard of."

"It isn't?"

"You've finally found out some of your pain may have solutions. Or mitigations. That can be a tremendous relief."

The picture had four people in it. "When can we start the testing?"

"If you don't mind missing all of 'Housekeeping Hour' rather than just the first few minutes of it today, we can start this time tomorrow."

"Sounds good..." John recognized three of the four people in the picture. The other was a woman about Washington's age. He had an arm around her waist, so presumably she was Professor Martha Washington. "I'd have thought Alexander would object to you having a picture of him in your office." 

Washington turned to look at it. "I asked him. He's only seventeen there, it's small and at an angle, and I keep it far back." 

Lafayette was giving Alexander a piggyback ride. Both so happy. Though John figured Washington wouldn't keep an unhappy photo here. Selection bias. "Where are you?"

"Colonial Williamsburg. You're the first person to notice."

John wasn't sure what to say to that. It was like being told he was the first person to notice a meteor shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton's love of unicorns needs to show up more in fandom.


	11. The Intersectionality Drinking Game

John found Alexander in the laundry room. He was waiting for the spin cycle to end. Waiting, naturally, by using the top of the washing machine as a wobbly table and filling up more paper with his increasingly sloppy handwriting. "Hi, John. I volunteered to be the one to move everything from washer to dryer today. Everyone who wants to wash clothes puts them in a mesh bag first, to avoid confusion. Eight minutes left. It's Jay's turn to take everything out of the dryer. Franklin helped James with his laundry because James can't touch clothes that have touched the floor until after they've been washed."

"That's very kind of Franklin." John went on to tell Alexander what happened with Washington. He left out the stuff about noticing the picture, though. He didn't want to make Alexander nervous. 

The crayon went still. "You were okay with the possibility of medication?"

"Well, I've wanted to die a lot. And it keeps not working. Maybe if I can stop wanting to die that'll fix the problem. Lafayette would insist on singing 'Bring Him Home' at the funeral. He's a good singer but he seriously overacts." John said it all casually, but Alexander looked at him with perfect understanding.

"I think he'd sing 'A Little Fall of Rain', actually. I'd sing 'It's Quieter Out of Town' from Bly, myself. Don't make us fight over the song order. Please. Ever." 

John wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he went to the earlier point. "I thought you consented to medication."

"Yes, but not at first. I was fifteen. Started therapy on its own when they first took me in two years earlier. That was fine. I enjoyed having an adult who was required to listen to me. When Washington had me evaluated by an independent psychiatrist - to avoid bias - I refused the recommendation." Alexander chewed his lower lip. "That sounds a bit more dignified than what actually happened. I screamed that I wasn't going to be drugged into someone's idea of a good little boy. Then I threw a copy of the DSM-IV diagnostic manual off a balcony and into the fish pond below."

"Were the fish okay?"

Alexander stared at John for a second. "You are too good for this world. No wonder you can hardly bear to live here."

"Um."

"That's not me flirting, I promise. When I flirt I compliment people's intelligence, sexiness, and how much they clearly like me. Not their purity of soul."

"Okay." John leaned against the dryer. "Were they, though?"

"They were fine. They were these brightly speckled carp more than a foot long, and there was plenty of room for them to dodge a sudden paperback. I got a reasonably gentle lecture after I simmered down. Washington knew it was a knee-jerk fright, not malice. He also noticed that I could have easily thrown one of the much nicer, more expensive books that were closer to me, but I'd gone out of my way to grab a worn-out paperback copy. He notices things like that..."

John noticed an empty cup of laundry detergent sitting on the dryer, gooey blue dregs on the sides. No actual bottles. Maybe the detergent was dispensed on an as-needed basis to keep someone from trying to poison themselves with it. "What happened next?"

"I apologized and agreed to pay for a new copy and take over fish-feeding duty for the next week. To make it up to them, so to speak. I promised to use words, not volume, to state my case. So that night I decided to write a six-page essay arguing against medicating me. I expected Washington to skim it and then recycle the paper, but, uh, a week later he gave me a ten-page rebuttal. With charts and graphs. Gorgeous, efficient prose. I read it a few times and checked his sources. Emailed my therapist. Three days later I gave him a list of terms and conditions. Then we negotiated a diagnostic appointment time."

"I don't flirt with people by telling them they're weird and brilliant," John assured Alexander.

"Well, that's a weight off my shoulders." Alexander took John's left hand and lightly squeezed it. "Did you hear that for Evening Group Eliza's gonna have us do an activity she invented? She always comes up with good stuff. Aaron only has two group therapy formats in his repertoire, and you've seen both of them. "

It made sense for Alexander's fingers to always be warm, John thought. It naturally followed. "They seem to work fine."

"Yeah, but he's so tenacious in his boringness. He could learn one or two of Eliza's. That would be enough."

Eliza's new activity turned out to be called 'The Intersectionality Drinking Game'. She enlisted their help placing three jugs in the center of the dining table and put a stack of cups next to them. "If you want to play, take a cup and fill it with the water, orange juice, or fruit punch."

"Are we permitted to mix them?" Sam asked. If the question had come from someone else, John would have thought it was a joke. Sam held his empty cup and waited for permission.

"Yes. But I won't be held responsible if the resulting combination is disgusting. This game is inspired by a performance art piece I saw..."

Thomas twirled around in a swivel chair he must have commandeered from the nurses' station. One of the dining chairs was missing. "Ah yes, the hitherto unknown therapeutic benefits of performance art."

"Do you have a quota of dickishness to fulfill throughout the day or something?" Alexander snapped. 

"Alexander, let me fight my own battles." Eliza took a seat at one end of the oval tabletop. "I've tried it once before, when I was covering for a nurse in the adolescent ward. I hope you can all be at least as mature at them."

"Oh snap, as I believe the kids say," Franklin whispered. Friedrich snorted.

Eliza lowered her voice and leaned forward, conspiratorial. "You may have noticed that Mr. George King is not here at the moment. He's chosen to start over with new therapist, so the session he's just begun will take an hour. In case that affects anyone's decision whether to play or not. It can get intense. You can sit the whole thing out or stop at any time."

"Can I watch instead?" Jay asked. When Eliza nodded he curled up on the Couch of Emotion.

Everyone started filling their cups as Eliza explained the rules. She was going to read a list of things that made life more challenging. Every time one of them applied to you, you took a sip. The nature of the list meant that gulps were a bad idea. Though they weren't drinking alcohol, running to the bathroom would get annoying. It was fine not to drink if something applied to you but you didn't want to reveal it. It was strictly forbidden to drink to something that didn't apply to you. "I'm playing as well. Ready, gentlemen? Good. Drink if you..."

(Have been treated negatively because of your mental illness.) Everyone except Eliza drank.

(Have nightmares.) Everyone drank. Thomas said, "Well, duh." John grabbed Alexander's arm to keep him from rebuking.

(Have a physical disability, chronic ailment, or permanent injury.) James, Franklin, and John drank. 

(Were bullied at school.) Everyone drank.

(Have been treated negatively because of your perceived race or ethnicity.) Everyone except for Sam and Friedrich drank. Alexander cleared his throat. "Franklin...I've been meaning to ask but didn't know how to bring it up...."

Franklin smiled and raised his cup as if to toast. "Polynesian."

"Polynesian." It wasn't clear if Pierre was absorbing the information or stuck echoing. 

"Ooh," Alexander said. "Not - not in a fetishizing way, just I haven't met many...I'm gonna shut up now."

"Ooooh, the day finally came." Thomas gave his chair a celebratory twirl. Eliza gave him an eloquent Mom Face, despite Thomas being at least ten years older than her.

(Have been treated negatively because of your sexuality.) Predictably, Friedrich, Pierre, Alexander, and John drank. Less predictably, Sam did too. "Asexuality counts, right?"

"OF COURSE IT - turntable - DOES!" Friedrich bellowed supportively.

(Been rejected or made to feel unwelcome by your family on account of your sexuality.) John and Friedrich drank.

(Been discouraged from doing or liking something because of your gender.) Friedrich, Pierre, John, Alexander, Thomas, and Eliza drank. She said, "Mine was skateboarding, which I did anyway. Sharing the thing is totally optional. If any of you make fun of someone else, I am kicking you out of the game."

Thomas said interior design. Alexander said unicorns. John gathered up his courage and said crying, but was rewarded by another hand-squeeze from Alexander, their hands hidden under the table. Pierre's was trashy heterosexual romance novels, but he had to tell them so in a French-English mix. Friedrich said knitting. 

"You get your needles back for Sharps Hour today," Eliza reminded him. 

"Yes, good. I want to finish my little project before I leave this place."

Eliza warned them that, now they were loosened up, they were getting into more painful territory. "Remember that you don't have to drink. The important thing is not to untruthfully drink."

(Were physically assaulted.) Friedrich, John, Alexander, and Sam drank.

(Were sexually assaulted.) Nobody drank. "Thank God for small mercies," Sam said.

(Were sexually harassed.) Eliza, Alexander, John, Pierre, and Friedrich drank. "Very small mercies," James sighed.

"All I said was, 'Oh, wow, my sister just texted me and I gotta go, bye.'" Eliza stared into her cup. "We do what it takes to survive."

"I edged away and told her that 'bi' doesn't mean 'tasteless'." Alexander said softly. "The teacher didn't believe that a girl could make a boy feel uncomfortable in that manner. I got in trouble for insulting a classmate."

John secretly rubbed his thumb over Alexander's knuckles. "Yeah, I thought 'Pretty Boy is not, in fact, a rank,' was sure to be a winner."

Pierre tried to contribute, but only produced a confusing slurry of four languages in two sentences, plus a few hums. Friedrich reached behind Franklin to run a soothing hand down Pierre's back. Pierre relaxed. 

"I was - turntable - much younger, but I informed the man that - turntable - if he didn't back off I - turrrn - would tear his fucking nose off, eat it, and smear my resulting cartilage-filled shit in his eyes as he lay in a hospital bed." Friedrich sounded like he'd just summarized a superhero origin story. Sam cringed, but Thomas whistled. Not sarcastically.

(Lost a friend to death.) Franklin and James drank.

(Lost a child, due to death or miscarriage.) James and Thomas drank.

(Lost multiple children.) Thomas drank.

(Lost a spouse.) Thomas knocked back his cup's remaining contents like it was a shot of hard liquor, and slammed his it on the table. He looked around with a face that was all sharp angles. "What? Huh? Huh??"

Alexander cleared his throat. "You, uh, you wanna refill?"

A pause. Then Thomas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Sure. Thanks. The Kool-aid." He shakily rolled up one sleeve to reveal a tattoo that said MARTHA, surrounded by music notes and autumn leaves.

It was a beautiful tattoo. It raised some questions, though. John remembered Alexander saying that Thomas kept proposing to a staff member who was also named Martha, and hoped Thomas' major motivation wasn't tattoo consistency. It could be a coincidence. Not like it was a rare name.

(Lost a sibling, whether by death or separation.) Alexander and James drank. James' coughing fit seemed very convenient in timing. Thomas patted his back in a dazed but friendly way, still punch-drunk. So to speak. He hadn't rolled his sleeve back down yet.

"I think I'll join Jay on the couch," Sam said. "Can I take my orange juice/punch mixture, even though I'm done playing?"

"That's fine," Eliza said, then started reading off the list again. 

(Were adopted or fostered.) Alexander and Eliza both drank.

(Lost a parent or parent figure before you reached adulthood.) Alexander and John both drank. "I don't count my biological parents as my parents," Eliza clarified.

(Lost multiple parents or parent figures before adulthood.) Alexander drank.

(Were at some point food insecure.) Alexander drank.

(Were at some point homeless.) Alexander drank. 

Thomas thoughtfully moved his chair back and forth in a slow arc. His voice was the gentlest John had heard from him so far. "Would you like a refill?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Water."

Eliza threw in one for comic relief. "Watched a horror movie and then needed to leave more lights on than usual.."

Everyone drank to that except for Pierre. Who shrugged and said, "I like the Paranormal Activity series best, but have great respect for The Blair Witch project as a classic."

"Can we stop here?" James asked. 

"I need to pee," Alexander declared.

"How about just one more?" Eliza asked. At the nods, she said, "Drink if you've learned something new about each person here."

They all drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I wrote myself into a corner by having a Martha on staff before I decided on Thomas' widowed status. I hope you can accept my silly compromise. The perils of installment storytelling!
> 
> The game is inspired by a "Privilege Drinking Game" done by members of the Welcome to Night Vale cast/New York Neo Futurists acting troupe. Privileges included "I'm a cisgender man", "I have a college education", "I'm considered a healthy weight", and "I have a savings account".


	12. The Petition of Frustration

Eliza wasn't thrilled that John had waited until after dinner to tell someone about his shoulder itching. 

John didn't add that he thought about mentioning it during Journaling Time but got caught up in intrigue instead. Without George, Aaron, Eliza, or Sam noticing, Thomas managed to pass around something he'd written called the "Petition of Frustration" to the others. It was a beautifully, economically written essay listing George King's transgressions against the rest of them and arguing why he must be moved to a more restricted ward. Alexander fussed over some of the wording via high-school-style scribbled notes, but no blood was shed. Everyone in on the plan signed it. 

Unfortunately, Eliza and Aaron would have been duty-bound to stop and reprimand them, regardless of their own feelings. Sam would have been stricken with his particular form of guilt and told George. Franklin's assigned therapist, Tommy Paine, was the most likely to act on the petition in a constructive way. Franklin said the man had a lot of common sense and little fear of authority, and that he would give it to him tomorrow.

As for the drinking game, not only was Eliza busy (and Aaron wasn't fully qualified for wound care), but John hadn't wanted to miss it. He wasn't sorry for that.

"It doesn't hurt or anything," John told her instead. 

"John. You have sensation loss in that area. Something could be very wrong and all you might feel was itching."

"Is there something very wrong?"

"No, but that might not always be the case. Was it bothering you during Sharps Hour?"

"A little, but Pierre and Alexander really wanted me to join them." They'd established that John could snap his fingers to a beat (clapping was clumsy thanks to the sling). They took advantage of Pierre's iPod access and a secluded part of the yard to play "Pulitzer, Sir" for John to listen. John asked to listen to it multiple times to really get the beat. He didn't want to let his new friends down. Then Alexander thought John would enjoy "The Story of the Year", and "The Mill Where it Happens", and...

John didn't mind. The grass was soft, and for a few minutes Alexander's energy was more smooth than frenetic. Pierre's fingers curled around his iPod like a flashlight in a dim world. 

"John?"

"Sorry. I'll tell someone next time, I promise." He didn't say that he wasn't used to having so many people caring about his well-being, rather than just his survival. She had warm hands too. 

He hummed "Pulitzer, Sir" in the shower to make sure he had the rhythm down pat. Secret rehearsal tomorrow.

Social Hour was in full swing when he returned to the common room. Betsy was working on some patriotic needlepoint cradled in her lap - the cloth had holes and the needle was blunt plastic - as she supervised a tabletop game of Scrabble between Jay, Sam, George, and Franklin. John heard her say, with exaggerated patience, "You can't keep discarding tiles you dislike, George. We're not playing by those rules."

"But I can't possibly form words without consonants!"

Alexander muttered in Spanish, "Sure you can, if the gag is large and you're very motivated." At least John thought that's what he said. John's Spanish had faded away after his mother died. ("Why study Spanish in school if you already speak it?" his father said.) It was also tricky because Alexander was lying under the table, face smushed against the rug, one hand gripping a chair leg like he was waiting to pull it out from underneath someone. 

John knelt down and placed a hand on that hand. A silent question.

"Sedative. Comfy rug. Don'wanna bed yet."

Friedrich and Pierre were doing the English-French weave as they talked, sitting side by side on the Couch of Emotion. Pierre's head rested on Friedrich's shoulder. Friedrich had a hand on top of a pillow that was on top of Pierre's leg. Creative. "...To my usual baseline. I don't ask to be tic-free. By now they longer think I'll get any dire side effects. I'm sorry to leave you here, but you've made friends at least. I will visit."

"Mm. You'd better. I'm glad your condition has improved, though." Pierre didn't sound completely cheerful. "Can you stay until after Music Therapy on Friday?"

"Yes. I'll have to stay until - BIVOUAC - lunch that day at least, so the nurses have time to analyze my last set of vitals and feel assured the meds won't fuck me up the moment I go out the door. It will be easy to linger. Now will you please tell me what the hell you wrote on my arms?"

Pierre gave him a sleek smile. "Not yet. It's in bad handwriting because of the medium and my occasional twitch, so I doubt you can find a translation by itself. I'll tell you if you visit on Saturday. I'll also take advantage of the rule that says patients can kiss their visitors."

"Damn it, little gecko, you'll be the death of me..." Friedrich didn't sound particularly upset.

Eliza approached both Alexander and John. "I'm going home for the night. Are you two okay?"

Alexander turned his face so he could speak more clearly. "Klonopin is the coziest and fuzziest off all things."

"I'm just watching him," John said, now sitting cross-legged. "He was nervous about sedation."

"That's an understandable concern, and very sweet of you, John. If it helps, strictly speaking it's an anti-anxiety medication with the possibility of drowsiness. The brain's finally letting the body feel all the sleepiness it should have felt for the past few weeks. Sleep well, both of you." Eliza gave Betsy a wave as she walked away.

"She's so lovely," Alexander informed John. "Your fingers are lovely, too."

James and Thomas had moved the rocking chair and swivel chair off to the side for a more private conversation. James was saying, "....for you about your late wife, but you're making our tech Martha uncomfortable." 

"It's just a joke. She saw my tattoo, and asked about it..." Thomas swiveled to gesture in Martha's direction, all the way in the nurses' station. She was busy with a stack of paperwork. 

James rocked his chair with more momentum than usual. The two of them looked like a giant executive desk toy. "It's not just a joke if the recipient of the joke cringes."

Somewhere above John, George said, "Excellent word, Reverend Seabury."

"Frankly," Franklin chuckled at his own pun, "I would say Sam and Jay are neck-and-neck."

Alexander fell asleep, and though he could be roused, he was so out-of-it and floppy that it would be easier to have someone carry him. "Cumulatively, over the past two and a half weeks he's gone the equivalent of six nights without sleep, and he wasn't well-rested to begin with, Betsy explained. Martha ended up summoning a nurse named John Hancock, who usually worked in the more violent and longer-term men's ward. 

"Once you're done tucking the boy in," Thomas asked Hancock, "can I talk to you for a second?"

John decided he might as well start getting ready for bed. He didn't watch Hancock depositing Alexander, though, wanting to respect his dignity.

Pierre was now assigned to the same bathroom. He nodded at John, who was brushing his teeth, and went into the toilet stall. His disembodied voice asked, "Do you think 'Love is Weird' and 'Stupid Sexy Gummy Bear' are more amusing or embarrassing?"

"You know hi' be'er," John replied.

"Know hi' be'er," Pierre echoed, with the exact same toothpaste-y pronunciation. He sighed.

John rinsed and spat. " _Pourquoi_ 'gecko'?" Maybe if he not only switched languages but used as few words as possible Pierre wouldn't get trapped.

"Gecko, gecko." Pierre flushed the toilet and emerged. John moved one sink over so Pierre could more conveniently wash his hands. "My, gecko, grandparents' home in Vietnam is full of geckos. Geckos. Born in France, moved here young enough for, gecko, accent. American accent. Visit them often. Told Friedrich that they, geckos, are on the walls of my room there. Geckos are fragile. Large eyes. Small. But..."

"But?" 

Pierre sighed again and resentfully licked the light switch. He made a face. "Didn't want to do that. Ick. Geckos, though...they can climb."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a possibility I won't update tonight, gentle readers, for the sake of other projects. Or will I??? The manatee plushie does not judge. The unicorn paperweight does not overthink.
> 
> Either way, I expect there will be a new chapter on Thursday/late Thursday night.


	13. Itching and Burning and Tingling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning specific to this chapter: Implied/Referenced Gore.  
> If you want/need a more precise warning, skip down to the end notes (as it's mildly spoilery).

"You're up already?" John asked. The clock on the wall said 7:47.

Alexander paused in his writing. "Did I wake you? Sorry."

"We've got less than fifteen minutes anyway. I know you slept."

"I woke up only a few minutes ago. I've never slept more than nine hours at once, no matter how much sleep deprivation I was making up for. It's already doing me some good, though. I feel a lot more solid. Real. The main problem is that I now realize I was a serious jerk to Washington while he was introducing himself to you. So I'm writing this apology, and if you'd be willing to give it to him when you see him today..."

"Of course." John carefully sat up. His shrapnel scars sometimes ached when it was going to rain hard. Like an old person's joints might. He'd woken up all twisted in blankets and his own limbs during the night. The nightmare had involved the bullet going through Lafayette's chest instead of John's shoulder. Watching Alexander sleep had been calming. It wasn't creepy if the person knew beforehand that you were going to be in the room, right?

"I also shouldn't have insulted Aaron by belittling med techs in general. It was inaccurate. And petty. And also if Cato found out I said that about his profession he might use his ninja-stealth and...I dunno, play a prank on me or something. Did you know that Cato checks on all of us every half hour during his shift, and yet the only time he's woken someone is when Sam put a pile of books near the door to trip any 'government spies'?" Alexander folded his note and put it on John's side of the nightstand. "I get a real pen during Sharps Hour today. I wish I weren't so excited."

"It's nice to feel excited about things." John took Alexander's offered hand and used it for leverage to get to his feet.

Breakfast wasn't exciting. That was fine. John did not demand positive excitement out of every moment. Even when excitement happened, it often surrounded him without touching him. Right now he felt placid more than anything.

Franklin asked John if he was eating so little because he genuinely didn't want to, or because he was apathetic towards it. John poked his blueberry muffin like it was an unfamiliar toy rather than a food he'd eaten and liked hundreds of times. "Apathetic. I only really get something out of making other people happy when I'm like this. For some reason it makes you guys happy when I eat, so."

Alexander made a weird face at that. John hoped he hadn't made a faux pas. Franklin just smiled gently and said, "If you finish your muffin, out of sheer joy I will tell you some party tricks you can do with static electricity."

George was still in pajamas during Morning Group, which wasn't against the rules but made him stand out. Especially since they were red satin pajamas. He seemed less sullen this morning. Even patted Sam on the back.

"Stand in a circle, please." Aaron had small, soft, fuzzy ball in his hands. It was black with enormous white eyes and tiny black pupils. It looked so frightened that you wanted to cuddle it. "Alexander made this during the first two Sharps Hours of his stay. It's based on a...what?"

"Soot sprite. From the movies Spirited Away and My Neighbor Totoro." Alexander turned to Friedrich. "I value the long history of knitting and its superior ability to make sweaters and socks. Crochet is so much better for making cute little critters."

"I do not dispute that," Friedrich replied, distracted. Pierre's yawn and stretching were pretty cute.

"It was really a present for Eliza, but did she give it to you so you could do a new kind of group format for once? Because thank -"

"God, Alex, I wish they could just keep you sedated."

Aaron sighed mightily. "Alexander. Thomas. I don't want to have to follow procedure and ask Maria to spend the exercise hour encouraging you do a bunch of trust exercises with each other. Let's just do this."

Thomas shuddered. "Sorry."

"Sorry," Alexander said.

"Sorry," Pierre echoed, then facepalmed.

Friedrich made a small, sad sound not usually associated with burly middle-aged men. "Please don't hit yourself." 

This game was called Virtuous Circle. When you received the ball, you shared something nice another participant had done, either for you or someone else. Then you tossed it to that person. Gently. 

John noticed that James froze when Aaron explained the rules. James also started breathing a little faster. John interrupted Jay's quiet question about what happened if your mind went blank in the heat of the moment. "Sorry. Sorry, Jay. It's just that James looks stressed? Is it about touching the ball? Maybe someone could catch and throw the ball for you? Would that help? That would be okay, right? It couldn't be me because my sling, but would that help?"

James nodded. "Yes. Please."

"I'll do it," Thomas said.

Once Aaron finished reassuring Jay, then Sam ("What if we're bad at throwing?"), he said, "That was just one example I've seen of John being considerate of others and making peace. The very first hour he was here, he defused an argument between me and Alexander."

"I'm sorry about the ad hominem part of that argument." Alexander mumbled. "I hadn't slept much in weeks. I was weak."

"I forgive you. John, would you like me to hand you the ball?"

"Yes, please. I can throw it but it's harder for me to catch a squishy thing like that one-handed." John thought about starting with Alexander. That would have been the easiest. Pierre, Friedrich, and Franklin between them would be sure to keep Alexander from being left till last, though. He needed to make it up to Jay for the interruption. "Jay was super nice during my first group, offering to go by his last name so I could go by my first name without confusion. I didn't say it at the time, but, uh, I didn't have a good relationship with my father. Or a good experience in the Army. Being called just by my last name reminds me of those things. I don't have a good relationship with anyone who used to call me 'Jack' anymore, either. So this means more to me than you knew. Ready to catch?"

Jay stared at the ball in his hands for a moment. He looked at John. He looked at the ball again. "Oh. Um. Franklin, the first night we were roommates before you had to move, you noticed I was cold. You handed me a sweater and went out to ask Hercules for two more blankets. One would've been enough."

Franklin told the group that James asked him what made his voices "Poor Richard", "The Ambassador", and "Mr. Greenback" pipe down. When Franklin said it was talking about potential inventions, James listened to him go on about a new type of adjustable eyeglasses that could be mass-produced for people in developing countries, who wouldn't need to see an optometrist. Something similar already existed, but he hoped to make a less bulky and even more cost-effective version. "I'm very passionate about developing nations. Thomas, please catch this for James."

James told Thomas to just hang onto it, because James wanted to tell the group about his wife's first visit, and Thomas overhearing her complaints about how she was running out of ways to cook dinners their picky son wanted to eat. Thomas gave her a pasta recipe that turned out to be a hit. 

Thomas informed the group that Friedrich had taught him some stretches that helped with Thomas' recurring leg cramps. Thomas' throw was a bit of a failure, turning into more of a roll, but Alexander managed not to comment. Being more rested clearly helped with his impulse control.

Aaron visibly tensed when Friedrich cradled the ball thoughtfully in his hands. The tension got worse when Friedrich began with, "Pierre..."

"Oh Jesus Christ, this will be appalling," George muttered. Alexander inarticulately growled at him.

"Pierre learned that I finished my book and hadn't thought to pack another to pass our periods of free time. He lent me one of his. It wasn't my genre, but I found myself compelled - POWDER - by the growing attraction between the young ingenue and the eccentric baron. I must buy the rest of the 'Forged Valley' series when I return home." Friedrich raised an eyebrow. "What did you think I was going to say?"

Pierre laughed as he caught the ball. "Going to say. Going to say, going, going to - Alexander argued on my behalf that I should be allowed to keep my bellybutton barbell in while I'm (powder) here. I don't have any of the special self-harm restrictions (powder) and it would be really hard for (going to say) one of you to steal it without me noticing." He lifted up his shirt to reveal the tiny glint of metal. 

Alexander was caught between praising Sam and praising George. The choice was clear. "Sam, the first night you were here you shared some of your...thoughts...on the government. And aliens, to a lesser extent, mostly aliens that allegedly work in government positions. I wasn't...charitable. I stand by my arguments but not by how harsh I was. Anyway, everyone, after all that happened, Sam came to me in private and asked if I would like him to pray for me. I replied, okay I snapped, did he mean for my soul or something, _Reverend Seabury_? Because no thanks. But he said he heard my worries about whether I'll be able to make a successful return to grad school next semester. He wanted to know if he could pray for my peace of mind. Here, Sam, and thank you."

Sam caught the ball. "You're welcome, Alexander. I know most of you dislike George, and I know you have your reasons. I consider it the Christian thing to have done to extend a hand in friendship to him. Last night he repaid me..."

George hissed, "Seabury, I said this was between us, that they wouldn't understand!"

"They need to know! They need to know you're not like they think! Last night I had the terrible itching in my back again. I wasn't wearing a shirt so I knew it couldn't be a tag like Molly discovered last time. Horrible itching and burning and tingling. I told George and he told me that he was familiar with certain types of electrodes that the CIA secretly implants inside people who are onto them. And he got them out for me!"

By this point Molly had come closer. She said, very slowly and calmly, like trying not to spook a frightened animal, "How did he do that, Sam?"

George pointed at Sam.

"Don't tell them! The CIA will find out and we'll all be in trouble!"

Aaron spoke with the same slow, manufactured calm. "We want to hear from Sam."

"Molly and Aaron are on our side, it's okay. So you know how you punished George for trying to take apart a grate. You should apologize to him. He was fashioning a tool to help me, so he could dig the electrodes out. It hurt, of course, and we had to hurry before Cato came back and interrupted, but he cleaned the incisions after..."

John couldn't breathe properly. James sagged into Thomas' arms. Pierre and Friedrich edged towards each other. Franklin had a supportive arm around Jay's trembling shoulders. Alexander was getting red in the face. 

Molly put a hand lightly on Sam's shoulder. "Why don't you come visit Dr. Locke with me to explain the situation, and we can see if there's anything else that needs to be done? George can only do so much on his own. I'm sorry I didn't investigate further yesterday. I'd feel better if you came with me right now."

Sam handed the ball to Franklin. "All right, Molly. I might need a change of shirt later, if someone can fetch one for me..." 

So gentle, so gentle as she led him away, "I'm sure someone will be happy to do that." She took a small walkie-talkie from her belt and rattled off a bunch of coded terms.

When Sam was safely on the other side of the double doors, Aaron said, "George, I need you to come with me."

"He asked me to," George said sweetly. "He _begged_ me to. Sweet, submissive Samuel Seabury, so deluded, so loyal - he wanted an example of my love, so I gave it."

"You can walk out of here with me, or you can wait for me to call Officer Cornwallis from security to handcuff and drag you out. What's it going to be?" 

"If you're going to be so rude about, than I will choose the former. I'll be back, though, gentlemen."

Aaron gripped George by the upper arm. Not harshly, but firmly. George did nothing worse than pout a bit as Aaron led him off. He said over his shoulder, "Paul from Adolescent Nonviolent should be here soon. I trust you all to behave."

Friedrich flipped George off with both hands. "Mr. King, you fuckwit, I hope maggots feast on your eyes." He added some curses in French and German. John's knowledge of French didn't extend to obscenities, and his knowledge of German went only as far as the occasional metal song lyric. 

Pierre cursed at much longer length, in four languages, at a rapid and fluid pace, and with many expressive gestures. Though everyone else contributed to the array of cussing and growling, there was the sense that he and Friedrich led the pack. 

By unspoken agreement, all of them sat down except for Alexander. Alexander was pacing. Thomas took the Petition of Frustration out of his pocket. "What are we going to do with this now?"

Franklin peered over his shoulder. "You got Hancock to sign it?"

"Well, I figured since he knows the more violent ward well, he'd have an informed opinion." Thomas unfolded the document and held it up as he rotated in the swivel chair. "Now, I know doctors are famous for bad handwriting, but I never heard that nurses had GIANT-ASS SIGNATURES...Sorry. I'm kinda worked up."

"We all are," James said, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair. 

Thomas sighed. "I also got a janitor to sign it. Apparently George deliberately knocked over this guy's bucket. I hope the man wasn't kidding with me and using a made up name."

"Button Gwinnett? Really? Is the 'Button' a nickname?" Friedrich looked like he wanted to inspect the signature more closely, but he was trapped on the Couch of Emotion with Pierre on his lap, and not that invested in moving. Jay sat on the other end of the couch, hugging his knees and making himself as small as possible. Franklin had pulled up a chair next to him and wasn't touching him, but was in reaching distance.

"We should make it public. That way they'll know we all saw it coming," Thomas said. 

Alexander stopped in his tracks. "You must be out of your goddamn mind, Thomas! If Sam's family sues over this, it's Vernon that'll suffer, not George King, and our petition coming to light after the fact would only make the - wonderful, kind, competent - staff seem more liable. It's not their fault we had to put up with George so long -" 

Thomas rolled his chair closer to Alexander. "How do you know that, huh? Sure, Eliza and a few others took some measures to keep him from doing too much harm, but most of the staff just said he technically still fit within the requirements for our ward instead of one where he clearly belonged. Who was the one person who tried trusting him?" He swiveled to look at James, expectantly.

James coughed. "Sam."

"Right. Now Sam's gotten hurt! Have you an ounce of regret?"

"I have several imperial as well as metric units of regret! Don't attribute emotions to me or put words in my mouth. You don't know the situation. Vernon could stand to lose the money that allows this to be one of the best facilities in the country, if not the world, and to have significantly lower fees than many similar places. Having some lower-income patients pay on a sliding scale would no longer be possible. George King's family has been holding Vernon hostage..."

"Why should we believe you? How could you know something like that?" Thomas got out of his chair. He was so much taller than Alexander

John said, "'Find Her Inside.'"

Everyone stared at John. After a second Pierre asked, "You mean the song?"

"What happens in that song. Alexander. You need to." Alexander and Pierre played that song for John yesterday. It was set at the end of Nellie's mission in the insane asylum, when Nellie and her outside allies _revealed who she was_

The light dawned. Alexander sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay. Okay. I'm Doctor Washington's foster son."

"Whaaat." Thomas sat back down in his chair

"I've worked as a sort of personal secretary to him in the past, so I know more about how Vernon works and the situation with the Kings than any of you. Only George King and Director Howe deserve to suffer for what's happened to Sam. Please let me explain as fast as I can. Paul Revere is coming. He's a good guy but he repeats himself and shouts a lot."

Alexander explained, not only like he was running out of time, but like he would drop dead if he took too many breaths in the process. At the end of it, James asked, "It must be nice to have Washington on your side. What do you suggest, then?"

"I don't want us to destroy it. It might turn out to be beneficial. It might also pull the rug out from under Vernon's case. We don't know if there will be a lawsuit. Or how it will work if it does. Like I said, though, Washington's been fighting Howe over the King family's influence for decades. He's the best person to keep it safe and decide what would be judicious." Alexander finally took a deep breath and collapsed into the chair next to John. "I want Sam to get whatever he needs and I want people to pay for what happened. But I want the right people to pay. I don't want the patients and staff to suffer for the Kings' manipulation and Director Howe's fuckup."

"I'll do it," John said.

Alexander groped for a nearby half-empty glass of water. He had no way of knowing whose it originally was. "Huh?"

"I'm taking a note to Doctor Washington today anyway."

"If Cornwallis from Security comes in here, he might want to search the place and make us empty our pockets. He's a douchecanoe." Alexander brought the glass to his lips.

"I'll get you another, Alexander, please. You're making me cringe just watching." James got up and headed for the water cooler. Unfortunately he was upset and had to move like a knight in chess, which slowed him down due to the very faint outlines of the carpet squares. Franklin went off to get it done more quickly.

"If needed, I can negotiate with Cornwallis," John promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * More specific trigger warning: Though the evidence is not shown, Sam Seabury innocently tells the group that George King "helped him get CIA electrodes out of his back" last night, with some vague but distressing details. General alarm ensues. 
> 
>  
> 
> If that warning makes this chapter unpalatable, this is the basic rundown:  
> *****  
> ******  
> ******
> 
> Now that Alexander is less sleep-deprived, he feels that he was a jerk to Washington earlier in the story and gives John a note to pass along. Later, after Sam is gently led away to medical help and George less-gently led away, the signers of the Petition of Frustration discuss what to do with the document. Alexander fears that it could be used in court to harm all of Vernon and its employees if there's a lawsuit, and this would be unfair because it's really the fault of the King family and Director Howe. To verify this, he reveals his relationship to Washington. They all decide to get the Petition to Washington and trust his judgment. John volunteers.
> 
> ****
> 
> On a lighter note, check out LMM and Stephen Colbert's collaboration on "Button! The American Musical" on Youtube. http://youtu.be/uhFeQSBZUSk


	14. This Isn't the Military

Paul burst through the double doors, loudly proclaiming, "Maria is coming! Maria is coming! No need to be alarmed! Maria is coming soon!"

Alexander whispered to John, "My note for Washington is in your pocket, right? Put the Petition between the two sheets as extra security. I met Paul years ago. I'll distract him."

"I'm going to need to take a roll call as a basic precaution..." Paul advanced with a clipboard and pen.

"Oh wow! Paul Revere!" Alexander ran towards him with a delighted face. "I haven't seen you since I was seventeen! I always wondered what happened with your jewelry making hobby!"

Thomas and John casually moved behind the Couch of Emotion while Paul gave into the temptation to answer Alexander's questions about metalwork. James managed to get Paul to rhapsodize about silver's many underrated qualities. Franklin announced that he was indeed here but needed to go to the restroom. Friedrich got up and stretched, further blocking Paul's line of sight. Pierre dramatically twitched. Jay didn't do anything special. Which was actually a good thing. It would have looked weird if everyone was active at once. 

John and Thomas weren't crouched behind the couch, just standing, but cover was cover. Crouching would have drawn more attention than it avoided. John took Alexander's two-page apology note from his back jeans pocket and handed it to Thomas. Thomas sandwiched the Petition in between and folded them twice. John took them back and tucked them into his sling. Thomas' eyes widened at the not-previously-discussed strategy and he nodded, impressed.

Paul got them all somewhat settled, eventually. No, he didn't know about Sam's exact condition, but Sam wasn't in any danger. No, George wasn't in any danger, and it was very hostile of them to express a desire for him to be, though their concern for Sam was touching. Paul wasn't authorized to give details on such-and-such. Paul literally couldn't give details on this-and-that. Don't shoot the messenger. 

Maria arrived, as promised. Officer Cornwallis arrived, as feared. He spoke like they'd all done something wrong. "Before you head out for your exercise time, I will need you all to turn out your pockets. I will be searching your rooms and belongings as well. We don't want any more incidents."

"That seems excessive! Very excessive!" Paul exclaimed.

"George had marked antisocial tendencies and distressed others several times. Everyone else has never done anything worse than bicker." Maria looked ready to hit Cornwallis with her purse.

"All my things have to be washed if someone I don't know has touched them," James said. He was breathing hard again. "I can't put my books and watch in a washing machine."

Franklin scowled. "You're locking the barn door after the horses have been stolen. Claiming that you are giving us security by taking away our freedom leaves us with neither."

"This is a psych ward," Cornwallis said like that answered everything. "There's a certain amount of privacy loss..."

John stepped in front of the man and snapped to attention, muscle memory clicking all the necessary joints into place. "Officer Cornwallis. Sir. Private John Laurens. I would give you a salute, except that my right shoulder was severely injured during my tour in Afghanistan, and it sustained a gunshot wound less than a week ago when my suicide attempt went wrong. Sir."

Cornwallis squirmed under John's stare. "This isn't the military."

"Why must you act like it then, sir? The other alternative would be that you're treating us like involuntary patients. My friend Lafayette read the paperwork to me backwards and forwards before I checked in, sir."

"Lafayette?" Cornwallis seemed perturbed. And maybe impressed. Huh. Maybe Alexander would know something behind that.

John made sure his back and legs were as straight as they could go. Chin lifted. He thought of that line Alexander especially liked from Bly. From "The Ten Sting Commandments". _Look them in the eye, look no higher, summon all the strength that you require..._ "Voluntary patients in a First Floor ward cannot be subject to search or seizure of property except by police warrant, just as for the general public. Sir. Perhaps in the turmoil and shock over George King's attack on Samuel Seabury, the distinction has slipped your mind, sir."

Jay cleared his throat. "I'm not a voluntary patient. You can search my things. I don't care."

"But you must search them with Jay present and witnessing," Alexander added.

"They are right, you know," Paul said. Maria nodded.

Cornwallis stood very still for a moment. "I...I must have been confused. In the heat of the moment. I will go consult with - I, Director Howe -" He retreated without assembling the sentence fragments.

The moment Cornwallis went through the double doors, Alexander looked at John like the keys to lost languages were spelled out on his face. It felt odd, but not bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter today, gentle readers, bc I have managed to give myself finger cramps. Worth it!
> 
> Also, yes, the lyrics from "Ten Sting Commandments" are slightly different. That universe's version of LMM didn't write any exact copies, just a lot of eerily similar stuff.


	15. What Was Then Called Mount Vernon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning specific to this chapter: Discussion and comparison of types of suicide.
> 
> I finally stopped waffling over where this fic takes place. There are a few particularly obscure jokes in this chapter. I want to give you a change to figure them out on your own, but there's an explanation at the end.
> 
> Also, my new goal chapter count is 28. It is subject to change. I've decided to do shorter chapters but make the story last longer. 
> 
> ETA: The symbolism of the projected chapter count has caused some unintended worry. This story has a happy ending. I've decided to tag it as such.

John would be able to participate in the first half of exercise time before someone escorted him for half an hour with Angelica. Franklin, on the other hand, went off to spend the first half of the hour with Paine and would return for the second half with the others.

Paul was just here as a stopgap until the staff rotation went back to normal. He explained that he had been taking a turn handling administrative duties, as they all did at some point, and the adolescents weren't being neglected. 

They followed Maria out to the larger section of greenery. It was really sunny today. Very sunny. Warm for September, though not so warm John found it unsettling. At John's request, Alexander helped him remove his awkwardly draped cardigan and tie it around his waist. It would actually have been okay for John to temporarily remove the sling, from his shoulder's perspective, but the secret documents might fall out if he did.

Thomas put his aviator shades on and kneaded his temples. "If you could make an effort to at least not talk shrilly, Alexander, I will let you have my dessert at dinner."

Alexander rolled his eyes. "I am happy to speak entirely in low murmurs during your migraines if you just don't upchuck on my shoes. Ever again."

"I won't. Though, visually, I think it was an improvement. Not all shades of green are meant to be."

"Can we talk about something else?" James asked. "Please?"

Instead of spreading out, as John expected, almost everyone ended up in a knot walking around the perimeter of the field. Like kids on a field trip. Possibly because they were all emotionally keyed up. The exceptions were Friedrich and Pierre. The pair broke off from the group to run (yes, run) hand-in-hand under a line of trees that were considering changing color. As evidenced by the occasional shyly blushing leaves. Maria was keeping an eye on them, just in case. She remained far enough away that they could talk at least somewhat privately, though.

Alexander cleared his throat when the silence started getting awkward. "I don't know how many of you know that this was originally one of the many properties President Lincoln inherited when he was still leading the Revolutionary Army. It was a plantation. He immediately set the slaves free and sold what was then called Mount Vernon."

"Presumably this was after future president Herbert Hoover convinced him to become an abolitionist?" James asked, carefully stepping on a dead leaf twice with each foot. 

"Right." Alexander made a sweeping gesture. "Grover Cleveland bought it after his previous estate Monticello burned down, and filled it with his own bunch of slaves. In his unsuccessful efforts as sitting president to win against the surprisingly popular, first ever mixed-race candidate, he freed all those slaves. Some theorize that this measure helped him win his second, non-consecutive term after the Civil War. This became Vernon Military Hospital. Then General Hospital. Then Asylum. And, you know, now."

"I taught at the College of William and Mary for a while," Thomas said. "There are Cleveland shrines everywhere. His old rooms on campus, his old frat house, the bench where he probably lost his virginity, whatever."

"You're -" James broke into a fit of coughs. "You're making those up."

"Maybe."

"One of my best friends goes to the University of Virginia. They've got a statue of Cleveland that is deliberately turning its back on William and Mary. The idea is that yeah, Cleveland might have gone to W&M, but he must have found it lacking if he went ahead and founded UVA." Alexander moved aside so that Jay could brush past him. 

"That's the joke," John confirmed. He and Lafayette used to both be on the Cavaliers fencing team before John took his "year off" and came back to college with a wrecked shoulder. Lafayette was still happy to hang out with him, and claimed that his decision to stay at UVA for graduate studies was partly influenced by John needing looking after (much of the rest of the influence being Adrienne's job offer at a museum in Charlottesville). At the time John had been skeptical. 

"My wife teaches art preservation and restoration at James Munroe University. She enjoys it. Wishes the mascot wasn't an ugly bulldog, though." James coughed a bunch again, with wheezes for variety.

"Uh, how about you go get your inhaler and I'll go lie down with a blanket over my head and be miserable?" Thomas gave John a little wave as he shepherded James away with him.

Jay stopped walking to splay his hand on a nearby tree trunk. Alexander and John stopped as well.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"Not worse than usual. Less distracted. I'm real. I'm real. I'm real, and this is bark." 

Alexander whispered in John's ear, "Touching things and focusing on them is a common grounding technique."

"Is there something we could help with?" John asked.

Jay shook his head. "You tried to shoot yourself, right?" He didn't look at John.

"I technically succeeded," John said.

"They say people who take pills are the most likely to be found and saved. I thought about other ways. I thought they'd hurt more."

"Bullets hurt a lot." John wasn't sure if stepping any closer would help.

"I wouldn't, not here...you're nice people, you don't deserve to get in trouble on my account." Jay took a shuddering breath. "The sunlight isn't touching me. You know? It's on my skin. It's. Not. Touching. Me."

Jay couldn't be less than mid-thirties in age. John hadn't hit thirty yet. But we're all very young and afraid when we want to die. We're impossibly old and tired, too. "I know."

"Is it touching you, John?" Alexander asked softly.

John took Alexander's hand, as if he could get sunlight through Alexander's fingers by proxy. "It's trying. That's something. Jay, do you like hugs?"

Jay considered this, one hand on the tree, one hand behind his back. "I don't know what I like. There was a time I liked them, I think, though I might be making it up. You know how the times you were all right, once, feel made up."

"I know. I really know. Retroactive graying. That's what I call it. Don't know the real term. If you decide you like hugs, or want to try and see, I'm up for trying. Alexander's going to have better technique than me."

"Mm," Jay said. "It would be nice if you could ask Maria to come talk to me, please. It's hard to move sometimes. Or be loud. I don't want to walk over to her when she's busy."

"We can do that. I'm excellent at being loud." Alexander freed his hand from John's grasp, with a smidgen of regret on his face at the necessity. He turned around, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, "MARIA! A STELLAR DUDE REQUESTS YOUR COMPANY!"

Jay asked that they leave him alone with Maria. So they headed towards an oak tree Alexander pointed out. "I want to see if any acorns are available yet. One or two in each of Thomas' shoes would be a harmless laugh for us all. Ooh, if we find burrs we could try to get them to cling to Aaron's scrubs."

"A prank war could escalate really quickly. How about trying to throw them further than I can? Both of us have to use our left hands."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Fine." Alexander angled himself to look at John better, without pausing in his stride. "Do you feel as bad as Jay does and simply hide it better?"

"I don't know how bad he feels."

"How bad he seems to feel, then."

John looked up at the sky. "I'd like to see the end of today. If I try to think about beyond that, it's like staring down a very deep well. It's like being willing to finish an episode of a show you're not sure you want to watch a full season of."

"But in your second simile, you get to change your mind if you decide you actually do want to watch the full season. The choice isn't irrevocable." Alexander sighed. "Sorry. I know reasoning with depression is like wrestling with dense pudding when you're already worn out. I just...I can't stand the thought of a world that had, say, George King in it but not you."

There was too much to respond to there. John chickened out and responded to the least important part. "If we can't find acorns, maybe we could have a simile battle."

"There's an idea." 

They soon reached the oak tree. Alexander crouched down and started looking for something they could use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The magnificent Quid Pro Quo universe, particularly its companion Nightstalker series, uses a flipped presidential order to account for that 'verse's history. I decided to be a little different (and avoid the mental image of George W. Bush as a Founding Father). I think I'm the first to do a _jumbled_ presidential order.
> 
> Now, the IRL info on colleges/universities mentioned here:
> 
> \- The College of William and Mary was Thomas Jefferson's alma mater. They are very proud. It's in Williamsburg, Virginia, a city which includes the historic reeinactment section known as Colonial Williamsburg, beloved by tourists and field trips. 
> 
> \- The University of Virginia was _founded_ by Thomas Jefferson. THEY are very proud. Its city, Charlottesville, is within a few hours' drive of W &M. They really do have a statue of TJ that is deliberatly turning its back on Williamsburg.
> 
> \- UVA studens are "Cavaliers", and the logo is a pair of orange crossed sabres on a dark blue background. I thought Lafayette would get a kick out of it. They have a good fencing team, or at least they did back when they were stabbing the hell out of the fencers from my college. 
> 
> \- There's a university in Virginia with the intials JMU that has a bulldog mascot. It is of course James Madison University. Students frequently put funny outfits on the statue of very dignified but very tiny Jemmy. 
> 
> (There's a bunch of stuff named after Munroe in Virginia, too, but Munroe isn't in the fic, so I can give him one more.)


	16. Scraps of Conditional Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings specific to this chapter:  
> \- Implied/Referenced homophobia  
> \- Parental rejection  
> \- Past suicidal ideation  
> \- Sad smol John is sad and smol (but is finally being heard)

"Would you prefer to talk about what happened this morning, instead?"

John adjusted his hold on the plush manatee. He irrationally felt better when it was upright and facing Angelica. "Do you think I should?"

"I think you should talk about the thing you want to talk about." She had a necklace on today. It looked like a quill pen. Her earrings matched.

"I want to talk about what happened after they stopped me from jumping off the bridge. Well, maybe I don't want to, but I want to want to. It seems like the thing to do." 

John thought about how manatees have no natural enemies. Their only serious enemies, speedboats, are unnatural. Collisions preventable. All you have to do is make it known, and require humans to slow down. He thought of them grazing in warm, sunlit waters. He thought about how when he was a kid he thought they were vegetarian walruses. 

He told Angelica about his short stint at the psych ward near UVA. He didn't resist, so it was classified as voluntary. He didn't know Lafayette at the time. They met the following year. Martha had been his only close friend until everything fell apart. She sent him a card. He couldn't bear to open the envelope. Nobody visited. He'd ticked the box saying not to inform his family. He listed his RA at his dorm as his emergency contact. The local bookstore employee Martha saw him kissing must have been spooked. He didn't answer John's texts after he got out. John went to other bookstores. 

The bridge had been spike in misery. John started getting back into things and giving the impression that he was fine. Sometimes it was even true. He attributed the incident to a momentary freakout. He took up fencing and realized that nobody could see him staring at his new crush through his mask. He salvaged the semester; got some B's, some A's, and a C in Statistics. Even John's father didn't really care about Stats class. What John privately called "The Summer Expression of Disappointment" seemed more for the sake of tradition that year. 

He told Angelica that things weren't always awful between them, growing up. That was the last summer it was true. His father helped him get a summer job in his company's mailroom. The mind-numbing nature of it was fine by him. They even went for few hikes together, as they had occasionally done over the years, and talked pleasantly about baseball and what his siblings had been getting up to. His father took John to an upscale department store and encouraged him to pick out some new clothes. The whole family, as much as it could be without Mom, went to fairs and on scenic drives.

He told Angelica that sometimes he wished he had no pleasant memories of his father whatsoever. Given the choice of one type or the other, he'd rather erase those. If he could think of his father as purely demanding, judgmental, bigoted, and cold, then he'd be free of any desire for his approval. For a reconciliation. He could revel in simple and comforting hatred. 

He constantly wished that the thought of getting in touch with any of his other relatives didn't terrify him. This was the point at which he grabbed a tissue.

Better talk about Lafayette. Talk about Lafayette and how he lit everything up, even during those days or weeks the colors drained out of John's world again. How he and Adrienne insisted on John coming over for dinner every Friday. Once they invited him to go with them to visit Lafayette's former host family, "who are our American family now", but he declined, wanting to spend that time with his new boyfriend. Who ended up moving to Switzerland, of all places, a few months later. It had been a good few months, at least, and they decided to end the relationship amicably. John counted that as the only real romantic relationship he'd ever had.

He told Angelica that Lafayette sat next to John and held his hand as John came out to his father over the phone. There hadn't been a specific incident to trigger his decision. He was just tired of lying. Tired of subsisting on scraps of conditional love. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore about the fallout.

The results were unsurprising. Lafayette told John that it was perfectly all right and normal to cry, but John just couldn't. So they watched a nearly wordless, bizarrely beautiful French animated film about some determined old ladies searching for kidnapped Tour de France cyclist. One of them was his grandmother. Probably. John had trouble following anything linear that night. 

It was Lafayette who accompanied John on the long drive in a rented moving van. Lafayette negotiated a three-hour period of Henry Laurens staying away from the house so they could pack John's things and take them away in peace. Unfortunately Lafayette could not secure John a chance to say goodbye to anyone. Lafayette was distraught over that. John simply felt subdued. Empty.

Lafayette was dead set against John enlisting. There were better ways to compensate for losing his family's financial support. Scholarships. Loans. A loan from Lafayette himself. Pretty much any job where there was less of a chance he'd get hurt or die. Yes, yes, the majority of the armed forces weren't sent to front lines, but Lafayette found the remotest possibility unacceptable. 

John told Angelica he gave Lafayette other reasons. Really, though, John had figured his two big problems were needing money and still being alive. His plan would help with one or the other. Theoretically his past suicide attempt would keep them from accepting him, but he knew recruitment officers in the area were scraping the bottom of the barrel by now. He was confident he could either sneak it past them, or "sneak it past" them.

"We're almost out of time for now," Angelica said gently. 

"Oh."

"Do you want to see me tomorrow, or are you comfortable with moving to the alternating-days schedule?"

"I'm okay with the alternate days. I don't think I can handle any more consecutive sessions." John blew his nose and balled up all the tissues into a single mass. He'd moved the manatee to his lap when he started crying, to avoid contaminating it. Angelica said she washed it often. John still felt better doing that. "Not that I dislike you."

"Your reassurance is very thoughtful. It's good to have time to process and recover. This is a change of topic, but - would it be all right with you if I asked Doctor Washington why he's doing all your diagnostics tests? Usually a therapist does the bulk of the questioning."

"Fell free to ask him." John wondered if Washington would answer, and if so, to what level of detail. 

He wondered if he'd have listened to Lafayette's arguments if Alexander had been making them too. If John hadn't just assumed that Lafayette shone as brightly and warmly on everyone, and that nobody else would have cared so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually keep my "real" writer self and my fic writer self separate, but this fic's gotten surprisingly popular and I don't want to throw away my shot. So:
> 
> When I was still in college, I got five urban fantasy YA novellas published by a very small press. I've grown a lot as a writer since then, but they have their simple, feelsy and humorous charms. Sort of fantasy/supernatural domesticity and coming-of-age stuff. If you'd at least like take a peek, here:
> 
>    
> [This is Amazon; also available for Nook if you wish.](http://tinyurl.com/donayahaymond-onamazon)
> 
> My most recently completed novel, which is wayyyy more elaborate and queer and close to the style I use in this fic, took years to write and is now in Development Purgatory. My publisher was acquired by a larger one that is honoring contracts but being really slow about it. I'm happy to keep anyone interested posted about that.
> 
> Oh, and The Triplets of Belleville is one of my favorite movies. Great music, too, though John wasn't in a condition to notice.


	17. Zillion

"Hey, you ate, like, twenty-plus bites of food at lunch. Without attempts at bribery." 

John opened his eyes and saw Alexander close their door behind him. "I continue to be amazed you care so much."

Alexander mock-shrugged. "Limited excitement around here. You've seen how boring it is. So lacking in drama and intrigue. I find entertainment where I can."

"Mm." John closed his eyes again, shifting his head a little on the pillow. He lay on top of the covers, keeping weight off his right arm and shoulder. 

The elderly springs in Alexander's bed frame creaked as Alexander lay down as well. "If you want me to be quiet for the hour, I can do that. Thomas might not believe it's possible. But you, unlike him, need to be cherished and nurtured rather than called out at every opportunity."

"I don't want to nap right now, thanks. You don't have to be quiet." No matter if John had no idea how to reply to the sudden expressions of adoration. Getting comments like that from Lafayette had been one thing. Lafayette loved everyone who wasn't unspeakably vile. Alexander, on the other hand, had a whole network of crushes-friends-allies-frenemies-rivals-nemesis going on. (Not counting George King, who everyone hated.) Among a very small sample population, too. 

"It won't hurt my feelings if you need me to be."

"I don't need you to be. And..." John couldn't verbally accept praise right now, even if it brought him a moment of warmth. He could try to engage. He could hope Alexander knew what that meant. "I have this weird symptom right now where the only food with any flavor is cornbread? Along with fruit juice. Plain bread has a sort of comforting texture, and so do a few other things, which makes it easier to justify the effort. Those two things are the only ones I could say I enjoy, though."

"What the hell, John. If you'd told me, I would have given you my piece. I didn't like it that much. I just hate wasting food. Especially food made with ingredients that are pronounceable words." 

"Thanks, but it would have been too much. I get full easily these days." John considered getting up to grab one of the three books Lafayette had selected for him when packing John's duffel bag. Lafayette hadn't wanted John to go home and try to do practical things when he was "in such a state", and John hadn't objected. He wasn't sure why Lafayette thought John might need a fake mustache here. Maybe he panicked. Maybe he hoped to involve John in hijinks, or possibly shenanigans. 

John was tired, though, and probably wouldn't read anything anyway. Not even from the wildlife guide with all the beautiful hand-drawn illustrations accompanying the text and photos. His mind was a wrung towel. He hoped the diagnostic questions wouldn't be very complex. 

"Getting full really easily is not necessarily a good sign, if it's a new phenomenon," Alexander said. 

"Mm. I'll tell Doctor Washington."

"Please do." Alexander paused. "I think Sam's coming back."

"Mm?"

"James says when Paul left he took all of George's things with him, which is permitted here if the patient has been removed for physically harming another patient. As long as Paul gives them back to George rather than running off with them or something. They consult the check-in inventory."

"Right." When John first arrived, he and Lafayette took everything out of his bag and laid them out on a table for a woman named Penelope to note down in a list. She sometimes asked them to shake something or turn something inside out, but she didn't touch anything herself. After Penelope certified the inspection as complete, anything further (without a warrant) constituted harassment or theft. Cornwallis thinking they'd forgotten that, or could be intimidated into not bringing it up, was especially insulting. A lot of disorders were represented here. Amnesia wasn't one of them. 

When John asked if Vernon took people with amnesia or other memory problems, Alexander said, "Not those kinds of issues, no. That's a whole other field. Not including depression-based-forgetfulness, PTSD mental blocks, etc. Aaron told me the other day that if they did have a patient whose experienced really severe memory loss, a copy of the Patient Regulations and Rights document we all sign would be taped on the wall above their bed. He's mostly passionate about fighting racial inequality and sexism, but he can get pretty worked up about disability rights too. I don't know if you noticed that he works longer shifts than the others. It's so he can leave early on Fridays for father-daughter time. He frustrates me in a lot of ways, but that is sickeningly adorable."

Listening to Alexander often felt like taking a rapid bike ride through a winding network of trails. Beautiful scenery, but easy to get off track. "What, so how do you know Sam is coming back?"

"Oh, yeah, that's where I was going, wasn't I? I don't know for certain. Molly fetched Sam's Bible and a change of clothes, which she'd only do on his request, but left everything else. Also I heard Aaron and Eliza discussing who the new guy apparently coming tomorrow should room with. If he's the only new one, but Friedrich is leaving, and if Sam were leaving too, it would be obvious to put him with Franklin. But if Sam comes back you wouldn't want to leave him alone - if there's an odd number, the person with highest privileges gets dibs on their own room, and that would Pierre - but you also might have misgivings about putting Sam with a stranger when Sam's gotta be super fragile..."

John didn't completely follow Alexander's convoluted and rapid-fire explanation. He focused on concern instead. "You sound like you need water."

"I really do." 

John's eyes were still closed. He listened to Alexander spend a long time gulping from his water bottle. "I won't forget to pass along the note."

"Good. Thanks." Another creak of bedsprings. "Pierre's spending some precious minutes of his Internet allowance looking up the legality of Director Howe's actions. Or at least coming up with a website he can direct me to when my allowance renews on Sunday. I burned through all my minutes for this week by Tuesday, you see."

"I never would have guessed."

"I bet nobody else here guesses what an understated sassmaster you are. Yeah, Eliza gave me a gentle but impressive lecture about how inflammatory Tweeting was not in the spirit of our Internet privileges." Alexander's words went softer. Slower. "If you're nervous about the diagnostic tests, I won't pretend they're fun. But just be honest. Don't worry about if you're self-reporting perfectly. Washington knows what he's doing. He's done umpteen jillion evaluations."

"Umpteen jillion," John repeated.

"Uh huh."

"Is that more or less than a zillion?"

With utmost gravity, Alexander asked, "Well, do you mean the U.S. zillion or the U.K. zillion?"

"The...metric zillion. After inflation. Which would make it..."

"I know how finances work, John. Sheesh. The metric umpteen jillion is more than the metric zillion. However, the U.S. imperial umpteen jillion is considerably less than the gazillion skillion twillion....Oh my god I made you laugh. That almost makes up for all the shit that went down this morning. I want to put that on my resume. 'Made John Laurens laugh. Like, really laugh, not merely chuckle or snort.'"


	18. Strongly Disagree

Doctor Washington gravely unfolded the folded note John had plucked out of his sling. "So you're saying the first and last page are by Alexander -"

"And the middle one is the unrelated composition by Thomas. All the signatures are from yesterday. Hancock and Gwinnett can both independently verify it."

Washington paused in his reading. "Hancock and who now? Please, take a seat. You look tired."

John sat. A small table had been placed in front of the chair, with a thick questionnaire and a ballpoint pen resting upon it. "Button Gwinnett. Thomas said he was a janitor George King had been mean to."

"Interesting name. I can follow up." Washington placed the two documents under the ceramic unicorn and pulled a folder out of a desk drawer. "Now, the first part of the testing is straightforward. Please reply to each statement by checking the box for 'Strongly Agree', 'Somewhat Agree', 'Somewhat Disagree', 'Strongly Disagree', or 'Not Applicable'. I prefer reading check marks to things being crossed out or circled, if you'll indulge me. When you're finished with it, we can move on to the parts where I'm more hands-on."

"Sure," John said, skimming through. The table was high enough that he could rest his forearm on it and angle his right hand correctly for writing without twisting his shoulder. Had that been planned? 

"I'm here to help with any confusion or uncertainty you may have about how to answer something. If you don't mind, I'm going to send a few emails."

"Not at all. Thank you for all this, uh, attention. Did Angelica ask you why you're doing so much for me personally?" John took up the pen.

 _I don't always know why I feel unhappy._ Strongly agree.

 _I feel guilt for things I did, or failed to do, years ago._ Somewhat agree. 

"She did. I told her that the friend who brought you here has a longstanding relationship with my family. I asked if she'd accuse me of nepotism, but she pointed out that three of her own family members are associated with Vernon in some capacity. She said you getting some extra positive attention 'for once' wouldn't hurt anything." Doctor Washington's computer pinged and he clicked emphatically. "No, Microsoft, I _don't_ want your new features."

 _I sometimes see or hear things I know are not real._ Strongly disagree.

 _I'm a bad son/daughter/grown child._ Somewhat disagree.

 _I'm a bad parent._ (John's pen hovered for a few seconds. Then he pushed the memories back where they belonged.) Not applicable.

"All the signers are going to ask me about the Petition. What should I tell them?"

 _Someone/something is out to get me._ Strongly disagree.

Washington briefly lifted up the ceramic unicorn to inspect the signatures. "Tell them I sincerely appreciate you bringing this to me, and that it will be very useful for an ongoing...campaign, if you will. I can explain further, personally, when certain things fall into place. You should keep the matter amongst yourselves for now."

 _I experience unusual lack of appetite._ Strongly agree.

"Got it."

 _There are times when personal hygiene feels overly exhausting or unnecessary._ Somewhat agree.

 _I am a brave person._ Somewhat disagree.

 _I have to follow rules other people don't in order to feel okay._ Strongly disagree.

"John..."

"Yes?"

 _I panic easily._ Somewhat disagree.

 _A lot of people/entities are out to get me._ Strongly disagree.

"Please tell Alexander that I understand, I forgive him, yes, and yes. Feel free to ask him about that, but he indicated that it's supposed to be a surprise."

"Got it." John's eyes sought out the framed photograph again. He noticed someone wearing a tricorn hat in the background, several feet behind the cheerful quartet. 

_I want to feel better._ Somewhat agree.

 _I sometimes see or hear things that are real, but others claim are not._ Strongly disagree.

"How old was Alexander when he made that unicorn?"

 _I make friends easily._ Somewhat disagree. (Last week he would have checked 'Strongly disagree'.)

Doctor Washington didn't fully smile, but one corner of his mouth showed interest in the possibility. "Thirteen. His note also gives me permission to answer your questions about his childhood."

_Nobody cares about me._

(John felt something curl around his empty chest, something soft and warm that might leave a trace when he went back to numbness.)

Strongly disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold the unicorn that historical Hamilton etched onto his powder horn:
> 
> http://image.minyanville.com/assets/FCK_May2009/Image/June2010/hamilton1.jpg
> 
> (I wonder if it had anything to do with his Scottish heritage? I like thinking he simply thought they were neat.)


	19. The Art Room

John accepted Eliza's offer to take him straight from Doctor Washington's office to the art room. "Everyone just got there. Except for Friedrich and James, who are having their individual therapy. Peggy works with each of the first floor wards twice a week. There's someone else who takes approved art supplies to the second floor, but that's beyond Peggy's training."

Eliza wore long-sleeved, light blue t-shirt under her navy blue scrubs. She looked nice in blue. 

The art room had a big table in the middle, similar to the one in the common room of their ward. Next to the big window were several plastic storage bins full of smaller plastic storage bins. John could see neatly organized bunches of crayons, colored pencils, felt-tip markers, a few different types and sizes of paper, old magazines, glue sticks, and photocopied pages from coloring books. It reminded him of elementary school. That wasn't a bad thing.

Peggy waved at Eliza and beamed at John. She was the shortest of the three sisters working here. At least the ones he'd met. Washington had mentioned an additional family member 'associated with the institution'. Peggy must have been the youngest. Her hair, her words, her entire being bounced with positive energy. She wore a lot of yellow, warm against her skin tone. Did the sisters deliberately color code themselves? 

"Hi, John. It's great to have you here with us. My list says you don't have any restrictions on supervised supply use, so please pick out whatever you like. If you can't finish your project in the next fifty minutes, don't worry, I can keep it safe for you until next time."

"You're in good hands," Eliza told John before she left. 

Thomas, currently sunglass-free, was quietly coloring in a pre-drawn mandala design. All his pencils were lined up in a tidy row. 

Franklin appeared to be making a kite out of drinking straws, fabric scraps, and string. John didn't know what the old key had to do with anything.

Pierre was cutting out pictures and letters from magazines and putting them in front of Jay. It looked like Jay was working on a collage, or possibly a well-illustrated ransom note. John doubted Jay was allowed to hold scissors himself. As of yesterday he had to sign out his own toothbrush and promptly return it after use. The poor guy kept trying to 'feel something, anything', as he put it. He whispered "thank you" every time he picked up one of Pierre's offerings and glued it down on his big sheet of paper.

Alexander was sitting as far away from Thomas as possible, looking miserable. His hands jittered and clattered against the table.

A large glass of a vividly orange drink sat on the table in front of him. There was a straw sticking out. He took a sip of his drink through the straw without using his hands.

John approached him. "Are you okay?" 

"No. My side effects peak around this time because my morning dose has been absorbed. Apparently. Nobody notices my goddamn hands doing this in the middle of the night, so evening dose isn't relevant. Doctor Knox says as I start to get used to the lithium my hands won't be as dramatic anymore. Might go back to normal. Almost certainly won't be worse than a light tremor. Same thing with the other effects - gone or reduced in three or four days. If not, we'll lower dosage. I'm so thirsty. My digestion's all messed up. I'm so thirsty that drinking water started making me feel more sick than hydrated, so Eliza gave me this. She says I can go back to water once I've finished this. I don't like sports drinks. Reminds me of sports."

"Pipe down, Alexander, some of us are trying to color here."

"Thomas!" Peggy held up a Pixar-themed coloring book. "You turned down this one because you said it was too childish. Please don't make me decide that you are too childish to be in this room and have the opportunity to color at all."

Thomas muttered something that by some stretch of the imagination might be considered an apology.

Alexander muttered something that could have been a gracious acceptance. Or a movie quote. Or a grocery list. Or a gracious grocery list quoted from a movie. Hard to say. 

Peggy helped John go through the bins without compromising his shoulder. He eventually found three color pencils that were suitable for blending into the right shades, paper with a slightly more pleasant texture than your standard printer sheets, and the finest-tipped pen available. 

Plunder in hand, John took a seat next to Alexander. "I need you as a model, if you don't mind."

Alexander raised his eyebrows. "Not sure how that's gonna work, but I'm game..."

"Small scale. Put your forearm of choice on the table, please. Palm up. I'm not drawing your hand. Don't try to make your hand go still. I'm drawing your wrist." John got himself into position.

So did Alexander. Even though he sounded dubious. "Wrists are boring."

"Not if you really know them. Their tendons, for starters. Did you know that we don't actually have muscles in our fingers? Muscles in our palms and forearms manipulate them through their long tendons. The tendons that run through our wrists are so close to the skin that you can see them flex and tense when they're working. Puppet masters. Then you have the subtle crosshatch appearance of your epidermis. Thin reddish or blueish lines of your veins and arteries. The other lines where the skin has to crease so you can bend your hands back and forth. Wrists do more for hands than just keep them attached to your arms." 

John drew his first line. Alexander watched. It was kind of like showing Alexander the intricacies of a dead leaf not so long ago, but instead of Alexander chatting constantly, a hush fell on them both. It felt more intimate to be drawing part of his friend in such precise, delicate detail. 


	20. Enviable, Comfortable, Safe Little Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Individual chapter warnings:
> 
> \- Brief but more-indepth-than-usual reference to food issues
> 
> \- A mental health version of survivor's guilt
> 
> \- John Jay doesn't know if he wants hugs, which we'll respect, but he needs _something_
> 
> All these are resolved or at least mitigated.

Peggy let their time in the art room run slightly over so John could finish his drawing (and Jay could glue down the last few pieces Pierre had cut out for him). There wasn't time for John and Alexander to return to their room before Evening Group. 

At Alexander's gestured invitation, John followed him to the corner that contained the Cabinet of Freely Available Cups and Locked Up Snacks. You could request a snack but it was at staff discretion. The limitation was supposed to promote ordered eating habits. Hercules was the most lenient and Aaron the least, according to Alexander's encyclopedic knowledge of snack wheedling. Alexander put his now-empty cup on the designated tray. 

"Still shaky. My handwriting's somewhat readable when I'm like this, but it's annoying for me to write and for anyone to puzzle it out. The words aren't trying to claw their way out of my skin right now, thankfully. During Sharps Hour, are you okay with Pierre joining us in our room for rehearsal? Sharps like his iPod are only allowed in common areas, but I don't think we need it."

"I don't think so," John agreed. "I'll need to give Thomas the letter from Doctor Washington first. He can circulate it."

"Good idea. Let him do some of the work for a change." Alexander had already heard the whispered particulars from John as they collaborated on the drawing of Alexander's wrist. The drawing Alexander was holding, pressed against his chest with the blank side outwards, like he was hoarding the image. Like only the chosen few would be allowed to see it. John might try the outer parts of Alexander's ear next time.

John thought that might not be a completely fair statement. Considering Thomas wrote the Petition of Frustration in the first place. He didn't feel like getting into it. Aaron was calling everyone over.

Thomas seemed to have staked a permanent claim to the swivel chair. This time Franklin was in the rocking chair, though, looking like he should be wearing a comfy robe and have a pipe and slippers. The Couch of Emotion was free, surprisingly, so John and Alexander took it. Everyone else was in a regular chair.

John let the sagging cushions engulf him. Now that he thought about it, his soul felt heavy but his body felt very light. Doctor Washington had said that his depression-induced lack of appetite might be undernourishing him and worsening his ability to cope with the depression. He seemed very concerned, so John agreed to his suggestion of nutritional supplement drinks as a stopgap measure.

Aaron cleared his throat. "I want to reassure you all that Sam is going to be okay. There's a strong possibility that he'll return to this ward tomorrow. We're definitely getting someone new tomorrow evening. Probably after Friedrich leaves. This may mean someone will be the odd one out for a time. Pierre and James will be the only two here with no hallucinations or self-or-others-harm history. James has a problem with doorknobs, right?"

"It's a lot easier if I can ask someone else to handle them. The ritual's pretty time-consuming." James stared at his hands like he wanted to give them a lecture.

"Banging your head on the wall in frustration constitutes self-harm now?" Thomas looked offended when at least four people nodded at him. 

"You think that's bad, apparently there's a 'self-harm by neglect' category," Alexander grumbled.

"On our last night rooming together you talked your way out of dinner and showering, then literally kept writing until you passed out on the floor. When I tried to get you to stop you snarled at me and said you'd shove the pen up my nose." James sounded more fed-up that scared.

"I apologize for the threat. I meant it as hyperbole. But you'd threatened to take all fifty-one of my sheets of paper, which you had counted, and throw them away regardless of whether I'd written on them."

"Please lower your voices. I really need this meeting to go better than the one this morning." Aaron looked very tired.

Alexander winced and leaned towards John, like John's proximity alone could keep him from getting into fights. "Sorry."

"Sorry." James paused. "We were talking about roommate assignments? I gather the conclusion is that it makes the most sense for Pierre to go solo?"

"Solo. Comfort myself - solo - somehow." Pierre nodded and gave a thumbs up. He and Friedrich shared a look.

Aaron checked off the first two items on his list. "Congratulations on going home tomorrow, Friedrich! I know we had our little confrontation - I can only say that I want the best for everyone here."

"Fair enough," Friedrich replied. "I will miss everyone - LOUISIANA - who is present. Pierre has my contact info."

"Louisiana," Pierre said. This time it was definitely wistful. 

They moved onto sharing something they were pleased about and something they were concerned about. Franklin informed them that his voices had hardly said anything today, but he was getting diarrhea from the meds 'something fierce'. 

Alexander said he shared Franklin's concern. Then he showed off John's drawing. Everyone made a fuss. John didn't know what to do with the attention, so he kept it simple and just said "thanks" at various intervals. 

Friedrich was happy to be going home, to sleep in his own bed and console his dog for being gone for such a LONG TIME the poor little thing. He wanted to get back to work and his normal life. He reiterated, however, that he would miss...people. 

Pierre was having trouble talking again. Or at least he claimed to be, via gestures. He started poking and tapping things.

James lost a valuable fifteen minutes this morning because he kept messing up his shower sequence. He also felt guilty about water wastage. However, he was pleased to have George King gone.

Thomas' afternoon migraine had been shorter than yesterday's. On the other hand, he felt like they could have prevented Sam's fate.

John said, "I spoke to Angelica about things that I'd never told anyone about. Nothing bad happened when I told her. That was a good surprise. On the other hand, the moment I'm not interacting with someone, it's almost like I'm back where I started." Alexander rested a warm hand on John's good arm.

Jay had a confession for them. "I didn't just stay out of Eliza's drinking game because it sounded intense. I, um, I - I said I'd get this off my chest, I..."

"We won't judge you," Franklin promised. "If you stayed out of the game because it reminds you of the time you made hundreds of kittens cry, or something nearly as heinous, we would still support you."

A chorus of affirmations followed. 

Jay took such a shuddering breath that Pierre preemptively handed him a tissue. "I didn't play because I knew almost none of the things would apply to me. Some negative treatment of the 'pull yourself together' variety for my depression. Some teasing at school. Otherwise nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. I've never lost a loved one. I never got to know the grandparents of mine who aren't living, as they were gone before I was born. I've never been attacked, or had anyone try to hold me back, or gone a SINGLE DAY without enough food or money. I've had reasonably satisfying romantic relationships that never ended in any dramatic ways. Never tried to have kids that I wanted, or get kids I didn't want, or had kids and then lost them. You were all drinking. Shot after shot after shot. I am screwed up. I am fucked up for no reason. I have had this enviable, comfortable, safe little life and I don't even want it and I can't even FUCKING give it to one of you who deserves better than what you got. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT."

John had seen and heard Jay weep, but not like these convulsive sobs. Jay sounded like invisible forces were trying to pull him apart. Starting with his lungs. Nobody said anything of substance for a moment. This was his moment.

Pierre was scribbling on an index card with what must have been his personal ballpoint pen. He reached across and handed it to Aaron once Jay was starting to breathe more normally. "You want me to read this?" Aaron asked. Pierre nodded.

"Here's another tissue," Friedrich offered Jay.

Jay took it, but didn't use it immediately. Simply held it. Raised a white flag to all pretense of being fine. "Sorry."

"I refuse to accept that entirely unneeded apology, as that would imply some form of offense," Franklin said.

"Sometimes you say sorry even when you intellectually know you didn't do anything wrong." Alexander turned to Jay. "Your apology isn't needed, but we appreciate the thought, yeah?"

"Okay." Jay seemed at a loss for what to do with his first tissue. John remembered being in the same boat and fetched the small wastebasket for him. 

Aaron read out Pierre's card. "This says, 'I played the game, but you've described some of my feelings too. I'm the youngest person here. Not much has happened to me and hardly anything bad. I have a loving, accepting family, even if they're far away. I have a trust fund. Good friends. Amazing looks. Everything. Tourette's is more neurological than psychological in many ways, so comparisons are flawed. But I know this kind of 'survivor's guilt'. Counting your blessings sometimes makes you feel worse for not feeling better. Or worse because you're not getting more done. That kind of twisty knot isn't what any of us are here to accomplish.'"

Jay timidly reached towards Aaron. "May I have the card, please? Pierre? Thank you. I'm not sure if I believe you, but I want to have it for later anyway."

"Clinical depression is a disease. It can hit someone regardless of circumstance." Aaron looked around the group as if checking for any signs of disagreement.

John said, "I spent some time in the hospital for a different injury. Not this one. I had some shrapnel. A man in the next bed had shrapnel plus burns. Not far from us was a man with shrapnel, burns, a broken bone or two, etc. We all needed help." He remembered the man in the other psych ward, years ago, who'd told John that someone needed his spot more. He banished it with the thought of Angelica's vicious response on John's behalf. 

Jay blew his nose. "Peggy said my collage was excellent and rolled it up for me like a scroll. I promised her I'd show it to you. I don't think it's that great but it was nice of her to say so. Pierre provided good cutouts."

The collage had a theme. Pens of all kinds. Scissors. Plastic knives. A single violin, floating among everything else. A few gadgets in the iPod species. Disposable razors. What might have been a toothpick. Knitting needles. Crochet hooks. Nail clippers.

The magazine cutout letters formed two sentences, one above the other:

iN ThIs SHarpS HoUr I aM dENIed

IN all thesE shArPer hourS I...I...


	21. Something Sort of Soothing-Sounding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to reply systematically to all your wonderful, sweet, gorgeous reviews, but I am having the enviable problem of not being able to keep up without cutting into writing time. I will do what I can.

Everyone with privileges were rushing for their prized sharps. A few guys wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to shave (supervised by Aaron, standing in one of the bathrooms). John took advantage of the bustle to slip Thomas the letter from Doctor Washington. Thomas quickly slid it into a back pocket of his skinny jeans. "It must be nice to have Washington on your side."

"I think he's on the same side as all of us?" John turned to follow Alexander to their room for their rehearsal, but he paused. "I know you and Alexander don't get along. But you don't have an issue with me."

"Not as such, why? Does it seem like I do? I barely know you. That'd be irrational. Maybe if we tried to discuss politics or something we might end up hating each other. I think that's how James and Alexander originally fell out, before they got to the essay destruction vs. nasal damage threats. They were buddies before that." 

"Right. So regardless about how you feel about Alexander, as a favor to me, since you kinda owe me one..."

"I do, but cut to the chase, man."

John fidgeted where he stood. Thomas was really tall and had such bright teeth. "Alexander's not doing great. Could you, uh, maybe play something sort of soothing-sounding? Please?" The music would be loud enough to hear from their room, John knew, even with the door closed. 

Thomas considered. "I'm impressed he got someone to like him this much. Are you two getting cozy like our pals with the tics? I'm not into men but I've got eyes. His clothes are hideous, but I admit _he_ isn't."

"No, we aren't. So?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll do something mellow that's dull as hell. Canon in D, even, if I can suppress the high school orchestra flashbacks. No Stravinsky or whatever today. If you'll excuse me." Thomas headed for Eliza, who already had his violin case in hand. 

********

Pierre didn't have any echo issues when he sang. They accidentally discovered that if he hummed quietly, it helped him suppress echoes when others were talking. He was excited to try that more widely. 

John's finger snaps felt more smooth after three repetitions of their little performance. Alexander said it was lucky that Thomas was being loud enough to cover their own noise but playing something "of sufficient chill" to not confuse their rehearsal.

"Group name?" Pierre suggested when they were almost out of time. He was sprawled on John's bed, with John's permission.

"What do we three have in common that none of the other patients do?" Alexander asked. He was pacing, but not frantically. Just working out some energy. 

John was leaning against the wall. Technically they weren't allowed to close the door when they had a 'guest' (why? orgy prevention?), so he was supposed to crack the door open if he heard someone approaching. "We're the only ones under thirty years old."

"Years old. I dunno. We're doing something slightly weird, I guess?" Pierre waggled his feet around like his ankles needed tightening. "I guess. I dunno. Slightly weird."

"Hmm. None of us are straight. Bi, gay, and...?" Alexander looked at Pierre.

"Pansexual homoromantic." Pierre switched to French. "Thank you for not assuming."

"Of course. Queer Trio?" 

"Queer Trio!" Pierre punched the air. 

John shrugged. "Fine by me." He felt like Lafayette would enjoy hearing about it, anyway.

**********

That night/technically morning, John found himself having tea with Hercules again. He wasn't crying, but he felt like he had a massive, gaping emptiness that took up most of his torso. 

"Has it occurred to you that you might also be hungry?" Hercules suggested. This time he was sipping from his own mug of tea. It wasn't a dainty little cup, but it still looked small in his sturdy hands. 

"Actually, no. I feel stupid."

"Hey, man, your brain's betraying you. It's not interpreting your body's signals properly because it's busy making the world seem worse than it is, you know? I've been there. Not-hungry and depressed isn't perfect, but it's an improvement." 

So John mechanically worked his way through a package of peanut butter crackers to go with his tea. Hercules was right. John didn't become happy or anything, but the emptiness shrank a bit after every effort of chewing and swallowing.

Hercules continued talking, slowly and softly, as John wrestled with the whole 'consuming calories' thing. "A few members of the staff have struggled with mental health too. I won't say which ones. Other than me. A lot of the rest have loved ones who struggle. Most people know someone with mental health problems, even if they don't know they know."

"Mm." 

"Phyllis takes my place twice a week. If you ever run into her, she's got some great inspirational lines that manage not to feel cheesy. There's one about how saying you can't be unhappy when others have less is _just as invalid_ as saying you can't be happy when others have more."

John hoped he'd remember to tell Jay that. Or to ask Phyllis to tell him that. "Wow."

"She's a published poet. She does day shift twice a week, too." 

"You're plenty inspirational," John said, trying to get cracker crumbs off his faded old fencing team t-shirt. Trust Lafayette to have packed that.

Hercules' laugh was clearly meant to be more loud and boisterous, but had been custom-fitted for their circumstances. Trimmed. Tucked in. "I just say vaguely nice shit and throw in some swearing to keep it real. My favorite meditation mantra is from comedic Australian musician Tim Minchin, not some wise monk."

"What is it?"

"It's a whole song - 'Not Perfect' - and I'm not big on singing in front of people, but I can quote it." Hercules rubbed a thumb up and down the handle of his mug as he recited. 

This is my Earth, and I live in it.  
It's one-third dirt and two-thirds water,  
And it rotates and revolves through space  
At rather an impressive pace  
And never even messes up my hair.  
And the weirdest thing about it is,  
The force created by its spin  
Is the force that stops the chaos flooding in.  
This is my Earth, and it's fine.  
It's where I spend the vast majority of my time.  
It's not perfect, but it's mine. 

"That's pretty cool..." John began, but Hercules held up a hand.

"The verses get smaller and smaller in scope. 'This is my house,' then 'This is my body'. That one has a good line about 'I spend so much time hating it, but it never says a bad word about me.' Then the last verse:"

This is my brain, and I live in it.  
It's made of love and bad song lyrics.  
It's tucked away behind my eyes  
Where all my screwed-up thoughts can hide,  
'Cause God forbid I hurt somebody. 

John felt something in his throat. He took a moment to decide if it was a piece of cracker or not. It wasn't.

Hercules said, "Uh, then something something. Something. Blah blah. Not important. These are the last lines:"

This is my brain, and it's fine.  
It's where I spend the vast majority of my time.  
It's not perfect, but it's mine.  
It's not perfect. I'm not quite sure I've worked out how to work it.  
It's not perfect. But it's mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tim Minchin peforming "Not Perfect".](http://youtu.be/dg3PberzvXo)
> 
> Hercules' recitation is from memory and not perfect, but it's mine. It also lacks a verse that is in the video linked above but isn't in the studio recording: "This is my country..." Presumably the verse was later cut bc it's about a now-former Australian Prime Minister. 
> 
> I recommend all of Minchin's work, but be aware that the majority of his solo material is sharp satire and that "Not Perfect" does not represent his general musical aesthetic. (Not counting the complete score and lyrics he wrote for the musical version of Roald Dahl's "Matilda.") It represents his visual concert aesthetic, though, except I think his customary bare feet are hidden out of frame.
> 
> P.S.  
> The quote attributed to Phyllis actually came from someone I know personally. Someone who reminds me I'm more than chemicals. I changed the wording, but it's been such help to me over the years.


	22. After I Remind You of Today's Date

John's strong desire to stay in bed on Friday morning had nothing to do with sleepiness. He'd slept enough. He just didn't want to emerge from his blanket nest. He had started feeling less numb, which meant he could feel the things the numbness had been protecting him from.

Alexander lightly poked at the blanket that was covering John's head and tightly wound around the rest of his body. "Do you want another hour in your coccoon so you have time to become a butterfly? I can tell Molly."

"Why do we have feelings?" 

This didn't faze his roommate. "To make us want things. If we didn't want things we wouldn't do stuff. Sam's returned, by the way. He's morosely eating toast and accepting gentle hugs that don't touch his back."

"He should be around people capable of cheering him up."

"Let him judge who makes him feel better." 

"You're very nice," John mumbled.

"Me? Hah! No, you happen to bring my few shreds of niceness out. I'll stop bugging you after I remind you of today's date..."

For a second John was confused. Then he sat up so fast he gave his right shoulder a twinge. "I forgot. I completely forgot."

"Hey, it's okay. No worries. I've got us covered. Trust me on this."

*******

Near the end of breakfast, Sam announced to all: "They were shallow. I won't have complications. Stop wondering so loudly, please. Also I'd like to move in with Franklin after Friedrich leaves, rather than take on a stranger as a new roommate this evening. Thank you."

He didn't say much else for the rest of the day, but he seemed to relax a bit when he was with the group and a lot was happening around him. John noted that the proportion of lengthy, yet innocuous, conversations went up by a significant margin. And that at least one person was always physically close to Sam at any given time. 

********

Pierre chose to communicate through index cards for most of the day. (He reassured Alexander and John that he was still very much up for their performance later.) It was the anniversary of his French grandmother's death. In their last phone call, she asked him not to fly to be with her during her last days, because he had the flu and she was worried about him traveling so far on his own while he was sick. His mother flew from California to stay with Pierre in his off-campus apartment when he ended up having the flu plus "the grief", as she put it. 

His new discovery that humming kept the echoing at bay made him smile, at least. He and Friedrich constantly touched in ways that were within the rules. 

********

The music therapy room seemed to consist of folding chairs, a large speaker you could plug an mp3 player of most varieties into, and a well-loved old piano. Except Alexander was helping Sally set up a folding table, too, and those who'd been here last Friday seemed confused by this.

Sally, who was somewhat young and very pretty, kept shaking her head at Thomas when he hadn't said anything yet. From what John heard, this was a logical and sensible approach. Pierre handed John a multi-card series of diagrams entitled "The Decree You Missed Yesterday". The series showed a stick-figure Thomas (identifiable by the hair) standing very, very close to a frowning woman who was surrounded by music notes. Then an equals sign. Then a rough sketch of a violin with a huge X through it. Finally, Thomas shedding a tear while presumably-Pierre (shorter and surrounded by hearts and stars) enjoyed iPod access. Alexander cackled at the last one.

"Why'd you go to all that trouble rather than writing two or three sentences?" Friedrich asked Pierre, ruffling his hair. Pierre pointed at John's small smile. 

Sally cleared her throat. "Today's session is going to be unusual in a few ways. Normally, if a visitor makes arrangements to visit outside of the standard hours it doesn't involve the whole group. But this visit is to more than one person, and he's brought..."

At which point Lafayette burst in, carrying a tall, rounded plastic container. "It's my birthday, and I am here to see my friends! Accept these facts if you wish for cake!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write all of the party, Friedrich's farewell, and the big reveal of who the new patient is, but I'm low in spoons and this is a good stopping point. 
> 
> My Thai grandmother died a year ago today. _Yai_ told me to stay at my new job rather than drop everything and fly to Bangkok. She didn't want me to throw away my shot, if you will.
> 
> We'd spent a month together the preceding summer. A good, happy month. We managed a lot of time together despite my tragic American-ness, from hours after my birth to that summer.
> 
> I miss you, _Khun Yai cha_.


	23. Let Them Eat Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't plan a certain dramatic thing Lafayette does here, or the backstory required to explain it. I hope I'm not being gratuitous and super self-indulgent. I also hope you like it as much as I do.

Lafayette looked every bit the dashing hero in his slimly cut navy blue jacket and vibrant red scarf. He'd probably spent ten minutes fiddling with the scarf's drape to make it look like he'd effortlessly tossed it over his shoulder. "Let us share immediately, without ceremony. Give me a moment." Lafayette handed the cake to the person midway between himself and the table. It happened to be Jay, who placed it in the exact center of the table. Sally produced a plastic knife and some plastic forks and napkins, enlisting various help to get things distributed. 

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed Sam try to scratch his back. Eliza said something to him and lead him out. Poor man. John would try to make sure they saved Sam a piece of cake in case he didn't return before the party ended. 

Alexander was the closest to Lafayette and promptly dove in for a hug. Lafayette kissed him on both cheeks and said, "You're looking more rested and settled today. Excellent."

Early in their friendship, Lafayette worked out some of John's boundaries when it came to physical affection, especially when others could see. Extended cuddles were only okay when they were alone, or with Adrienne around but not directly involved. Therefore, unlike with Alexander, Lafayette simply held John close for three exact seconds. John heard Lafayette count them out, which he did whenever the temptation was strong to hang on longer and risk John's discomfort. "One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand." Then he let go. 

"Louisiana," Friedrich's tic chimed in. He'd been stuck on that one since yesterday. He seemed wearily resigned. Pierre patted his upper arm in consolation. In turn, he briefly got stuck doing that until Friedrich rescued him. 

Lafayette politely ignored it. "Today I am here for many, but tomorrow I will be here for you, I promise." He shook John's hand, but instead of a normal handshake it was a left-handed one. This was not just a concession to John's sling. Lafayette's stance and angle made it clear. It was a fencing handshake. The one you do at the end of a bout or a match, when you still have a sword in your dominant hand (it was awkward when one person was a leftie, but neither of them were). It was how the two of them had first touched. 

_Good match! You need more training, but you show great promise._

_Oh, um, thanks. I heard you're from France? I've, um, been hoping to, um, practice French with someone._

_Let me buy you lunch off-campus and we can continue this conversation. Meanwhile I believe our teammates need this space, oops..._

The gesture constricted John's throat. Not in a bad way. "Got it." 

"What about me???" Alexander asked with fake outrage.

"You, Hammie, have already been spoiled with my attention. Speaking of which..." To John's surprise, Lafayette beckoned in Friedrich and Pierre's general direction.

Pierre detached himself from Friedrich and stepped closer to Lafayette. "Hm?"

" _Couleur_?" Lafayette asked. 

" _Vert._ "

Then Lafayette put two fingers under Pierre's chin to tilt his face upwards. Then gently kissed him on the lips. "That one was from me. This one is from Adrienne." He kissed Pierre harder this time, his other hand cradling the back of his head, holding it in place. Which was a good idea, because Pierre made a soft sound and almost stumbled backwards. 

This was all a surprise to John. He knew Lafayette was bisexual heteromantic, but he thought it was a moot point since Lafayette had never dated anyone except Adrienne. To John's knowledge, anyway. Maybe Lafayette had never mentioned being polyamorous to John for fear of making John think it was a veiled invitation and freak out. Which John would have, to be fair. He'd been very skittish since Charles Lee. _He never even touched you below the waist. Why don't you just get over it?_

A loud interjection brought John back to reality. "Hey, this is getting a bit inappropriate, isn't it?" James looked as judgmental as it was possible to look while eating a piece of cake. As a concession to his difficulties, someone had fetched him a real plate. 

"Screw you and the painstakingly sanitized bicycle you rode in on," Alexander began, ready to launch into another tirade. 

"Mr. von Steuben, if you will." Lafayette released (dazed and smiling) Pierre from the kiss and basically handed him to Friedrich. John thought of the "hold my flower" meme. "Alexander, it's my birthday, and I don't want to hear anyone fighting today. Mocking James' health is a low blow. James..."

Thomas interrupted, "James, Lafayette was doing the exact same level of PDA you do with your wife when she visits. I hate to agree with Alexander on anything, but it's Lafayette. He showed up to every one of my guest lecture series on the history of Franco-American relations, asked the best and most insightful questions ever, and treated me to a tour of Charlottesville. He brought us cake on his own birthday. It's really good cake too." He pointed at his own, heavily depleted portion of cake as it rested on a napkin in his hand. 

Lafayette flashed Thomas a grin. "They were excellent lectures. Mr. Madison, I had hoped you would not be the sort of person to judge a man's life choices while eating cake his wife baked and he decorated."

Sally joined the conversation. She hadn't treated herself to a slice yet but looked at the cake like she really wanted to. "You decorated it?" Her amazement wasn't necessarily because of heteronormativity. The layer cake had smooth, white frosting, with tiny fondant acorns and flawless red icing rosettes as accents. It said "Joyeux Anniversaire!" in loopy blue cursive. 

"I have a fondness for decorating pastries. Especially cupcakes. Working in miniature, you see. I can bake as well, but my wife is so much better at it that we generally stick to our specialties. Please, Sally, have some of your own if you wish. There is plenty. Does anyone else want cake? Nurses? Techs? Custodians? Let them eat cake. Speaking of which, I would like some. Adrienne made me promise not to eat any of it before my arrival."

"Save some for Sam, though," John said. 

"I don't want any, thank you." Jay was hugging himself as he sat in the folding chair farthest away from the others.

Sally said, "Alexander, how about you two do your thing after everyone here who wants cake has some? Including you, so you can pick out the piece you want to eat later."

"It's we three, now, but sure." Alexander headed for the table. "Want any John? We can share. I've got nausea again and tragically won't be able to enjoy much."

John nodded. "Thanks."

Pierre handed John a pre-written note on a sheet of scrap paper. Then he went to choose his own piece. John unfolded it.

_Alexander told me you're friends with Lafayette pretty much as soon as he found out. I don't know if that was the right thing for him to have done, but you know how he is. I'm writing this on Thursday because I don't know how up to talking I'll be tomorrow when you end up needing the explanation. It's a lot of effort to try to talk normally when I'm grieving and so on._

_I found Lafayette and Adrienne on FetLife last year. I'm a sophomore at Mary Wollstonecraft, btw, idk if I said before. I spend one or two weekends with them a month, usually. Charlottesville's too far to just drop in, and I have a whole fully-clothed life of my own. Lafayette rec'ed this place when my tics started getting really awful again. I don't get financial assistance here bc I don't need it, but the paperwork was still scary. He helped. They aren't romantically interested in me and I'm not in them, but they don't stop at aftercare and basically do beforecare, duringcare, allthetimecare. I'm not complaining, but I wasn't expecting it. All their profile said was they wanted to try co-domming [someone fitting my description] from time to time and that French fluency was a plus._

_I didn't tell you before bc I wanted you to get to know me as me first. Not as boy-that-spices-up-best-friend's-marriage. Not that I'm ashamed, but I didn't want it to be your initial lens. As for Friedrich, he IS romantically interested in me, and he's got a friends-with-benefits thing of his own he's not gonna be a hypocrite about. He also lives closer to Fredericksburg. I'm seeing where it goes and right now everyone's up for it. I'm done now; let's put on a show!_

They put on the show, at the front of the room while everyone was still working on their cake. Alexander told everyone that they were the Queer Trio, "but Lafayette makes us a Queer Quartet."

John messed up the rhythm twice, Alexander got tongue-tied once, and Pierre kept waving his hands in a way that broke character. But Lafayette seemed overcome with delight anyway. He did his best to hug all three of them simultaneously afterwards. "Next time I visit you at Columbia, Alexander, I'll bring these two, and we can all go to Broadway and do Try4Bly together. You sang Pulitzer's part particularly well, Pierre!"

"Say that five times fast," Alexander replied with a laugh.

Sally handed out the lyrics to some affirming, inspiring songs after that. Thomas got the sheet music as well because he was behaving, and therefore allowed to accompany her piano with his violin. Alexander tried to do a mashup by singing Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds" while everyone else was singing "I Will Survive." It didn't work.

When it was all over, Pierre couldn't seem to decide who to cling to. Everyone else had said their goodbyes to Friedrich and Lafayette and trailed out. The cake had been packed away for further distribution. Sally stood just outside the open doorway, as per regulations, until they were all back in the main ward. John needed to go to the bathroom, a little bit, but he couldn't help but linger while Pierre seemed so uncertain.

"We'll both be back tomorrow, little gecko," Friedrich said, running his fingers through Pierre's hair.

"He's always like this when it's time to separate," Lafayette said fondly. "Also he likes being talked about like he isn't here, don't worry. It's a thing. I wouldn't be rude in such a way."

John had never been interested in arrangements - or activities - like Pierre's explanatory note alluded to, but he felt wistful anyway. Lafayette was spending his friendship with John trying to compensate for John's entire lifetime of inadequate emotional support. He didn't begrudge Pierre's wealth of it, but he wanted to go find younger John Laurens and tell him...something. He wouldn't know what to say.

Alexander hooked an arm around John's left elbow. "Walk with me." 

Their path was always either in Sally or Martha-the-tech's line of sight, as Tech Martha was standing ready to let them in the locked double doors, so they were allowed to walk the short distance unescorted. "Did you arrange all that?" John asked Alexander.

"Mostly. Doctor Washington helped. Hey, you know food deserts?"

By now John expected swerves when talking with Alexander. "Like the urban areas where it's nearly impossible to get fresh, nutritious food?"

"Yeah. I lived in one of those in inner D.C. for a few months. I got sent to live there with an adult cousin after my mom died. Until I came home to a note on the table that read, 'Don't go into my room. Call the landlord. I'm sorry. It's not your fault.'" Alexander shook himself. "Sorry, that's not relevant and is making us sad. Anyway, my various frustrated foster parents in my time before the Washingtons? They lived in somewhat less shitty neighborhoods, at least. But I remember what my cousin was able to provide. All he was able to. Not his fault. How the food was all sort of beige and greasy. It could fill your stomach but didn't satisfy. It kept you alive but it wasn't what you needed."

"Uh huh."

"Then when you finally see a real feast you don't know how to feel about it. Especially when you see someone else - who deserves it, of course, especially in this case - with a...full shopping cart? Sorry, this analogy is running away from me." 

"It's fine, I get it. It's a good one. Thanks." Comparing John's father's affection to vending machine food was pretty useful. _Insert specific category of accomplishments. Receive love._ He'd mention it to Angelica. 

Alexander unlinked from John. "What's up? Pierre should be following us soon. Friedrich's stuff is in the lobby already, right? So Pierre's going to be the last one. Be nice to him."

"I'm always nice," Tech Martha said as she slid her card through the lock. "Tell Lafayette next time you see him that I want the cake recipe. And the frosting recipe. Ask if they take commissions." 

"I will. Is the new guy here yet?" Alexander stepped aside to let John go through first.

"Oh, yes. Betsy's introducing him to the group, I think. In you go. See you soon."

The doors closed behind them. John could see the new patient standing nervously next to the Couch of Emotion. He grabbed his friend's arm. "Alexander, Alexander, I've seen him before."

Alexander raised his eyebrows. "Where?"

"I can't remember yet. It's coming. I feel like I saw him yesterday, but that doesn't make sense." John detoured to get himself a cupful of water, as a way of buying his memory time. Alexander trailed after him. 

"Not everyone is here." Betsy was saying to the newcomer. "You might not want to repeat yourself over and over."

He looked sad. Not only depressed, though there was some of that too. Sad in a way John didn't see in Jay's face or his own reflection. Early thirties, maybe? His sweater looked hand-knit. The design was a repeating flock of birds. John knew his face.

The man said, "I don't mind."

John knew his _voice_. He knew it from YouTube. He knew it from PBS. When it hit him, he was glad he hadn't taken a sip of water yet. He might have choked on it. "Alexander, I did see him yesterday. On the dust jacket of one of the books Lafayette packed for me."

The man said, "My name's Meriwether Lewis, but call me Lewis, please."

Thomas did a full, excited spin in his chair. "I've been following your career with interest for years, this is amazing! What happened between you and William Clark? That big fuss at the Department of the Interior? I thought you guys were..."

"My actual, literal next request was not to ask me about that." Lewis sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

John wondered if it might at some point be appropriate to ask for an autograph on his copy of _Wildlife Along the Missouri River_. When Lewis wasn't crying, obviously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POLYYYYYY (runs into the sunset)
> 
> Serious notes:
> 
> 1\. I was really touched when I learned that Jefferson found a way for Lafayette to get sent all his Continental Army wages retroactively (since he'd served for free) after the French Revolution stripped him of his money and land. It allowed Lafayette and his family to buy a few comforts while they were political prisoners. Thomas aiding Lafayette in this chapter is a tribute. People are complex.
> 
> 2\. In our universe, Pierre would be going to Mary Washington, named after George Washington's mother. 
> 
> 3\. Obviously the real Lewis was much younger than John Laurens, but I'm using their ages for when they started trying to die. ;_;
> 
> 4\. Next chapter will have some Clark-bashing.


	24. Abandon Fear of Indignity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now a series. What have you people done to me? Go check out the first chapter of "Departure Days" if you want to know what George King was doing around the same time as part of the previous chapter.

Alexander managed to communicate with John without saying anything. Pierre had just wandered in, and Alexander jerked his head in his direction. Then he gestured at John, then at Lewis. Then he raised his eyebrows. John parsed this as, _"I need to look after Pierre. Are you going to be okay? Maybe you can sit next to the newbie?"_

Lewis didn't cry all that much. A few sniffles and tears. Mostly shaking and a reddened face. John took up the other end of the Couch of Emotion but was careful to leave him some space. Lewis sat up and composed himself. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to detract from the group activity."

"I had a drawn out sobbing fit in this time and place yesterday," Jay quietly assured him.

"I vomited in front of almost everyone a few days ago," Thomas said, probably feeling bad about setting Lewis off to start with.

"I mistook a squirrel for an alien the first night I was here," Sam said. He was sitting on a stool rather than a chair with a backrest. John cringed inside when he figured out why.

Alexander pointed at the table. "On my first night on a new sedative I fell asleep right under there and had to be physically carried to bed. The point I think we're all making is Abandon Fear of Indignity, All Ye Who Enter Here."

"One of my coworkers says that if we get through a week and nobody's cried, we're doing something wrong." Betsy flipped a page on her clipboard. "So..."

"Is it Angelica?" Thomas asked. "It really sounds like her."

Betsy just smiled. "So, let's do an introductory round robin. Your name and any preferred name or nickname, then something interesting or at least pleasant about yourself, and - optionally - your reason for being here. My name is Elizabeth Ross. Please call me Betsy. My quilt that depicts every U.S. flag throughout history, plus the Puerto Rican one, was awarded a blue ribbon at a competition last Saturday. I'm here because you're all a lot better conversationalists than the coma ward where I used to work."

Franklin chuckled. "I'm Benjamin Franklin. I generally go by Franklin. I once tried to write an almanac but couldn't make it long enough without resorting to dirty jokes to fill up space. I'm here because my schizophrenia medications started affecting certain...capabilities...and I'm staying somewhere safe until we know for certain that the replacements are working."

"How'd you know it was the meds?" Alexander asked, then looked like he regretted it.

"I'd be happy to tell you, but would you be happy to hear it? It all started whe-"

"James Madison! I'm James Madison. If you hear Thomas call me Jemmy, that's because he found out it's what my wife calls me, and that's kind of weird, so nobody else do that, please."

"I call you that when I'm making fun of you, to be fair," Alexander said.

Thomas swiveled in a big circle. "Are you saying it's okay for me to keep doing that?"

"I will stomp on your violin and hide the slivers in Alexander's dinner."

"That wasn't a no."

"It's sweet how they flirt," Franklin said, clasping his hands together. "When Thomas and Alexander fling insults they get all snarly and try to make themselves look taller. When Thomas and James fling insults, their voices go soft and they lean towards each other. I ship it, as I believe the kids say."

"I think they're queerplatonic," Alexander argued. 

Betsy waggled her clipboard at them both. "Whether you actually have these opinions or you're just teasing, it's not your business. Apologize, please."

Alexander and Franklin did. Thomas raised his hand. "Do I apologize too? Am I considered a wronged party?"

James teetered in his rocking chair. "We'll discuss it later. After lights-out." He winked. 

Franklin, Alexander, and Pierre burst into impressed laughter and a few claps. 

"How typical is this sort of conversation?" Lewis whispered to John. 

John whispered (to Meriwether Lewis!), "We alternate, mostly. We often have heartrending confessions followed by sincere expressions of support. Then we have this kind of thing. Though I've heard one serious conversation about baseball."

"In all seriousness though," James was saying, "My wife, Dolley, asked me to try medication for my OCD when we realized I was actively frightened of her son. Our son. Still getting used to that. Newlyweds. He's a young child and constantly disrupts my system, you see. When Dolley and I were dating it was fine, but now we all live together. It's not his fault. I don't want him to feel rejected. I want us to have a relationship. I don't need to be all better. I just want to be in a place where I'm not freaking out all the time. Also my ability to manage physical contact with anyone is really variable and I want it to stay where it is on my good days."

"Interesting thing about you?" Betsy prompted.

"Oh. Right. Um, I was once in an important meeting that was so long and boring that I covered my notes in doodles. Then there was a mixup and my notes ended up being on display, and everyone kept trying to analyze the significance of my doodling. Who's next?"

"I'm Reverend Samuel Seabury. Episcopalian. My congregation became distressed when I started giving sermons that strayed from scripture. I meant well. I wanted to warn them about the hidden dangers poised by tiny Congressional spy cameras, the subterranean anthropoids, things like that. The bishop gave me an ultimatum. Oh, everyone here calls me Sam. Feel free to do the same." 

"Interesting thing?" Betsy prompted again.

Sam sighed. "While I was talking to my brother yesterday - over the phone, he lives in Canada - he reminded me that I have a skin allergy to a very specific chemical. This chemical is found in certain brands of bleach. Such as they use to wash the bedsheets here. Which is why sleeping shirtless to avoid being bothered by a shirt tag might. Might, uh. It might. Make. Me. Itch."

"Why is everyone looking so upset about this?" Lewis whispered.

"I'll explain later," John replied. 

Sam surveyed everyone's faces. He added, "Also I studied divinity in Scotland for a time, is that interesting?"

"Interesting, interesting, is." Pierre kneaded his temples. Then he started sort-of-singing. "I've been having trouble talking todayy...singing is eaaasier to sayyy...it doesn't have to rhyme thoughhh wtf. Switching betweeeeeeen languages helps toooo. My name is Pierre Nguyen-Etienne...I have an unusuallll form of Tourette's that makes me echooooo others and get stuck when I'm tryyyying to make my own sentences. It's gotten worse, worrse recentlyyyy, especially whe-e-en I'm upset. I also do tyyyypical things like poking and tapping, compulsive gesturrrres. I speak four languages and have three tattoos and a pier-pier-Igiveup."

Alexander put a comforting arm around Pierre's shoulders. "Alexander Hamilton. My name is _Alexander_ , not Alex, please. I wrote the Wikipedia page on Historical Significance of Lighthouses to the U.S. Coast Guard. In a related fact, I have Bipolar I and was having my worst mania since before I started medication at age 15. They just put me on new meds. The mania itself is better now. It's the side effects we need to figure out."

"I have Bipolar II," Thomas began.

"You know that isn't actually better or more impressive, right?"

"I never said it was, Alexander."

"You insinuated."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Thomas Jefferson. My old meds were kind of bad for my kidneys and I have a family history of kidney problems, so we decided to try something else. My new meds are good for my mood but for some mysterious reason are giving me migraines. I've trained my pet bird to fly over and take treats from between my fingers."

"John Jay. I've agreed to be called Jay here to avoid confusion with John Laurens. I'm the only one here not classified as a voluntary patient. I tried to kill myself."

"Ah," Lewis said weakly.

"And I'm John Laurens. John. I also tried to kill myself, but my best friend tackled me and I shot myself in the shoulder instead." John gestured. "He's the one who convinced me to check in. Apparently he knows a lot of people here."

"Wait, Lafayette's the one who saved you?" Pierre asked. Then he realized he'd said a whole normal sentence and did an 'aw yeah!' fist pump.

Alexander nodded. "He brought us the two gifts of John Laurens and cake. Nobody knows what we did to deserve him." 

John felt himself blushing. "Uh. I'm actually training to be a medical and biological illustrator. My biggest inspirations are your books _Life Along the Missouri River_ and _Life in Clean Lines: the Case for Hand-Drawn Educational Materials_. Mr. Lewis. I...you're sitting next to me. Wow."

"He drew my wrist yesterday! I can get the book too!" Alexander sprang up and dashed for the bedroom. John blushed even harder. He couldn't look Lewis in the eye.

Lewis wasn't trying to look John in the eye, though. He was looking at John's shoulder. "It was my best friend who stopped me too."

"Clark?" Thomas asked before slapping a hand to his own mouth.

This time it didn't turn into a scene. Lewis actually smiled slightly. "No."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I've ever commented on a fic of yours and you think you might be seeing a shout-out in Sharps Hour, you are.


	25. Visiting Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want a glimpse of what Friedrich von Steuben got up to between chapter 23 and this one? Check out the newly posted chapter 2 of Departure Days

It was Lewis' friend who was the first to arrive during Visiting Hour the next day. She was taller than Alexander - which wasn't saying a great deal - and didn't look much older. Her hooded sweatshirt said IDAHO STATE UNIVERSITY. She'd tied her long black hair into a bun. John recognized her, though he'd never seen a picture of her in casual clothes. He'd only seen her in a Park Services ranger uniform (when working on behalf of the national parks), a business suit (when acting on behalf of the Department of the Interior), or traditional Lemhi Shoshone clothing (when speaking on behalf of Native American rights). Oh, and that one time she wore a dress covered in scarlet letters at a rally to support single mothers. 

Sacagewea practically slammed into Lewis with the force of her hug. "You scared me, you big idiot."

"I know." He looked like he was trying to bury his face in her collarbone. "I know."

Jay, Sam, and Franklin weren't expecting visitors today. Jay had chosen to schedule his individual therapy right then. Franklin was availing himself of his Internet allowance time. Sam was expecting a visitor tomorrow, but right now he was in his room writing a sermon on why bad things happen to good people. 

Meanwhile Pierre was in the bathroom fussing with his hair. He would probably continue until Friedrich arrived and someone had to drag him out. Guests were only allowed in the common room, out the deck, and in the fenced yard. 

This meant Alexander, James, and Thomas were all watching this reunion with various degrees of interest. And John, of course. And Phyllis, who was supervising. Penelope was busy figuring out what happened to their washing machine and whether it was worth calling maintenance. John remembered her as the tech who'd processed him on arrival. This morning Alexander had informed John that Penelope was into fancy foreign tea, and unlike most people she was occasionally sincere when she said "Bless your heart." The trick was figuring out when.

Lewis and Sacagewea were paying exactly no attention to anyone else in the room. Their hug stretched on. "Jackson says he's not accepting your resignation unless you give it to him in person."

"Fuck Andrew Jackson with a cactus."

"He's subsidizing your stay here."

"Fuck Andrew Jackson with an aloe plant?"

Thomas swiveled his chair dramatically and said, "I've been following your career with -" But Sacagewea held up a hand. 

John had seen that glare in the pictures. He would have never seen it in person if he'd died last week. His life, unknowingly, would have been poorer for it. He tucked that thought away to examine later.

Sacagewea ended the hug, but she kept a protective hand on Lewis' arm. "Mr. Jefferson, I read your article on the Nez Perce Reservation controversy. I'm very unsympathetic to wealthy men defending other wealthy men who screw over the mothers of their children while also disenfranchising their children's people. I hope Lewis and I can reconcile with William Clark, but not until he acknowledges his massive hypocrisy. Lewis, you said there's a yard where we can talk outside?" 

"Yes." As they walked away, Lewis asked her, "How's JB doing?"

"Honestly? He keeps wailing over why he doesn't get to see his godfathers right now, until he gets distracted by shiny objects. He's just like your twitter followers. Cameahwait says it hurts his feelings: 'I'm his _real uncle_.'" Then the door closed behind them.

Alexander scooted his chair closer to John's. "Wait, did she mean Andrew Jackson, Secretary of the Interior? I've vaguely heard of Sacagewea, but I'm out of the loop. If you think Lewis would be okay with us talking about it."

It took John a second to handle the fact that Alexander was treating him as an authority on Meriwether Lewis. "I'll just say what's on his blog, so I know it's something he wants out in the world. They all work for Interior. Lewis is in the Bureau of Fish, Wildlife, and Parks. Clark and Sacagewea are in the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Clark followed Jackson's instructions to fight against a bill that would allow the Nez Perce tribal leadership to buy ancestral land back at a deep discount. Sacagewea violently opposed Jackson -"

"Is she Nez Perce?" James asked.

"She's Lemhi Shoshone," John replied.

"Are they the same?'

Alexander sighed. "Are Swiss and Italian the same? Anyway, John, continue." 

"That's when Lewis revealed -"

" _Alleged_ ," Thomas insisted.

"Revealed that just over five years ago, Clark had an affair with a Nez Perce woman. This was during their National Parks Expedition. The three of them, with assistance, spent six months hiking and camping their way through several national parks to gather data and raise awareness. That's why they're so close. Were close. Lewis and Sacagewea say..."

"Allege!"

"That Clark has a son on the Nez Perce reservation, who he isn't paying child support for. That's the last thing I read on the matter before I..." 

Fortunately, the next visitor saved John from having to finish the sentence. She was a woman in her early thirties. John missed the rest of her physical appearance because he was fixated on her surgical-style rubber gloves.

"Hi," James said, rising to his feet with a goofy smile spreading across his face.

"HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO DOLLEY!" Thomas sang out, rolling towards her. 

"My wife! Mine! Give us a minute!" James pointed at her hands. "Thank you so much, dear, but I don't need you to."

"Are you certain? What about for yourself?"

"None. I...I can kiss you today and hold your hand without gloves, or plastic wrap, or anything."

Dolley tugged off the gloves and tossed them over her shoulder. "I'll pick them up, Phyllis, I promise."

Phyllis looked up from her massive, phonebook-like copy of _Writer's Market_ with a gentle smile. "Good. I'm not here to tidy after people." Her seat was by the door-lock mechanism, in a comfortable chair John had never seen before. A small light told her when to let someone in.

James said, "I have to kiss you on both cheeks three times each before I kiss you on the mouth, though."

"I have no problem with that."

Then Friedrich showed up. He surveyed the room. "Is Pierre off being insecure about his appearance?"

Alexander laughed. "Yes. I'll get him."

John waved. He wasn't sure what else to do. Before this speech on Lewis, John hadn't said so much at once to anyone but Lafayette, Alexander, and Angelica for a long time. And those were all private two-person conversations.

Friedrich waved back. He looked James and Dolley celebrating a good OCD day. "You were right, Thomas. About the same level of public physical affection."

Thomas grinned, but it turned wistful. John realized that Thomas hadn't mentioned a visitor of his own.

Then Pierre hurried towards Friedrich. "Leftarmsaysloveisweird. Rightarmsaysstupidsexygummybear."

"I'm sorry - CANOE - what?"

"What? What? Canoe! Your left arm says 'Love is Weird'. Your right arm says 'Stupid Sexy Gummy Bear'. Except I didn't have a dictionary with me, so it might say 'Foolish Attractive Gelatinous Creature'. If it does, sorry." He gazed up at Friedrich, nervous.

Friedrich scooped Pierre up in one motion, making him squeak in surprise. It was Pierre who initiated the kiss, though, winding his arms around the back of Friedrich's neck.

"Would you like to go kiss repeatedly under the deck?" Friedrich asked. 

"Mm hm."

"Lewis and his guest are out there," Alexander warned.

"We'll be considerate," Friedrich said. "Wrap your legs like - yes, like that - so I don't drop you, little gecko."

John was starting to get anxious right when Lafayette swept in. "I am so, so sorry my sweet friends. Car trouble."

"You're not that late." Alexander did the kiss-on-both-cheeks-tight-hug combination with Lafayette, like yesterday, then patted John's left arm. "I wanted to keep John company until you got here. Now I've got work to do. Have a good time."

"As it should be," Lafayette said once Alexander had left. "Today I am here for you. How would you like to sit? Or lie? Or stand?"

John threaded the fingers of his left hand through Lafayette's. The Madisons were busy talking and being compassionate towards Thomas' third-wheeling. No fear of comment. "I want...I want you to hold me, but it feels too exposed out here."

"No need to blush, John, though I understand that feelings are often not based in necessity. Behind the couch?"

"Alexander claims that the carpet under the table is comfortable. Even when you're not drugged to the gills."

"Nurse Phyllis Wheatley, shining star, jewel of the room -"

"Yes, you can cuddle under the table. I think you know the spirit of the rules and not only the letter of the law. I don't want to have to stop you." Phyllis chewed on her pen for a second, then made a note on the page she was looking at.

They let go of each other long enough to steal cushions from the Couch of Emotion and make a nest. It reminded John of childhood sleepovers. Lafayette wasn't a bulky man, but his arms were the most solid of things. He leaned against one of the table legs, a sofa cushion for a backrest, John as a teddy bear. "Comfortable?"

"As much as I can be."

"Ah. Tell me if there's something I can change." 

"I will."

"Good." Lafayette stroked John's knuckles with his thumb. "There is something I did that I hope you will forgive me for."

 _I forgive you for saving me, the only thing you've ever done that upset me._ "What?"

"I'm a thief now. I stole your gun. I separated out the bullets. I soaked it in whatever I could think of to make it never work again. Then I dug a deep hole in the garden and buried it. I will plant something special there so it's easy for us to find the spot. After you leave Vernon we can have a nice funeral for the gun. I can sing 'I Little Fall of Rain' from _Les Miserables_. You can say a few words." Lafayette spoke casually, but he was trembling.

"Laf, I'm sorry." _In the dream he aims to shoot himself but it hits Lafayette in the heart._

"It's a sickness, not a sin." Lafayette shifted, cautiously pulling John a little closer. "When my father died, after the funeral, I buried the wristwatch he'd given me. I didn't want it to measure time that didn't include my father. If I had saved him, I would not expect him to apologize for nearly dying. You see?"

"Okay."

"I'm telling you so your demons will stop distorting my words. Alexander's explained much, over the years. No one could explain all of it, but by now you've seen that if anyone could explain something..."

"He would make an interesting ride of it."

"Hah. He tells me that it's like a screen between you and the world. It makes everything darker and colder. You don't believe the good things you know to be true. You fear things you know aren't true at all. Until this healthy knowledge starves for lack of belief. Then you stop knowing people love you, no matter what they say. You stop knowing that you love animals and art, that, that, that your favorite ice cream topping is round rainbow sprinkles. When someone else says you are good, you are right, you are safe, you are loved...The words wash over you and don't sink in. He used precious internet time this week to help me maybe understand why. Understand the slightest bit more. What you meant when you said you'd won the war but lost the peace."

John had honestly forgotten that his favorite ice cream topping was round rainbow sprinkles. He was relieved that he remembered Lafayette's was crushed M&Ms. "Have I said thank you?"

Lafayette's silence was telling. Then: "Don't say it if you don't mean it."

"Thank you for caring. I..." John let Lafayette's chest take the weight of his head. "I think I will mean the rest. I'll say it when I do."

"That is fair. However, I want something for my birthday."

"What?" John didn't know what he could offer. What Lafayette could want that he couldn't get himself.

"Invite me to yours. October 28. It's possible you'll still be here, but that's rare for this ward. I don't care what you do for it. Sit and stare at a wall. But invite me to it. The next one, too. Even if Adrienne and I decided to start a family and wanted to move back to France for it - you would have plenty of warning, I promise. Invite me to Skype in with you. Same if you don't go back to Charlottesville, if Alexander drags you to New York with him, or you go work at an aquarium in New Zealand like you always claim you plan on doing when you're drunk. Invite me to the one after that. And after that. As long as there is a you to invite and a me to be invited. Please, John."

John didn't want to leave Lafayette hanging too long. Seas rise and empires fall between the gaps in conversations. He wanted to be honest, though, and sure. When he was, he said, "Always."

"Thank you."

"I'm afraid you might find the cake disappointing, though."

"I accept that my delight at providing cake for my own birthday is uncommon. I don't expect it of others." Lafayette cradled John like incorrect technique would make him vanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've now included/namedropped everyone on U.S. money who lived within a generation of Hamilton. I wish Sacagewea dollar coins were more practical. They're so beautiful.
> 
> Sacagewea does not have the surname Charbonneau in this universe, because it's far less common in modern times for fur trappers to buy 13-year-old wives. I didn't want to figure out some analogous version of that. She's a single mom to a kid who has an amazing uncle, a loving but troubled godfather, and a loving but very problematic other godfather.


	26. Sad Nature Dude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like the new chapter titles!
> 
> Chapter Specific Warnings:
> 
> \- Extensive discussion of suicidal ideation and planning  
> \- Brief reference to non-consensual touching

"Aren't you going to participate in Sharps Hour? I get the impression that it's very popular." 

John approached into the deck chair closest to Lewis'. They both looked towards the setting sun. "I don't need to. I have permanent pen privileges now and I don't have to shave every day. Do you want to be alone?" Evening group therapy was optional on a Visiting Hour day, and the vote had come out overwhelmingly in favor of making it Visiting Two Hours this time. 

Alexander had joined Lafayette and John under the table for awhile. When Lafayette and John had finished their manly weeping and were ready to laugh. Meanwhile Pierre and Friedrich had relocated to the Couch of Emotion when they got chilly and had calmed down enough to keep their touchy-feely level low-key. At the end of their time, Pierre did his best to detain Friedrich via big eyes and sniffles, but Alexander coaxed Pierre into a game of Scrabble in exchange for letting Friedrich go. Normally nobody wanted to play Scrabble with Pierre. As Alexander put it, _"You can never tell when he's making up words. Ninety-five percent of the time he's simply got that big of a vocabulary. The remaining five percent of the time he bluffs his way through with cuteness. He's like Puss in Boots from the Shrek sequels."_

Lewis looked up at John. He said slowly, "On balance, no. I wouldn't mind your company. I'd mind, say, Thomas'. You're the fan who seems to care about who I am, not just what I've done." He adjusted the beanie hat John hadn't seen him wearing earlier. Lewis hadn't come back inside since Sacagewea left him to his thoughts out here. Lewis' jacket didn't have a pocket big enough to stuff that beanie in. Which meant Sacagewea must have handed it to him and insisted he wear it. 

"I mean, I really admire Franklin's work, too. I just happen to have heard about yours _before_ I met you." That was considerably downplaying it, but it was obvious Lewis needed gentle handling. John lowered himself into the seat. He was careful not to overbalance. He'd twisted his shoulder in his sleep last night and York (who took Cato's shifts on the tech's nights off) had come running at his yelp of pain. Alexander's sedative dose was still high enough that he slept through it. York had been great about calming John down and taking him to Hercules for damage control. 

Canada geese honked overhead. Lewis watched them cross the patch of burnt sky. "I overheard a little of what you said to the others. About me."

"Oh, uh, was that okay?"

"It was fine. Was that all you knew, or all you were reasonably sure I'd be comfortable with?"

John wished he had a cloak or something. The weird cardigan-sleeve compromise he'd adopted wasn't as warm as he wanted. "The second thing. Stuff that the articles say too. Not the personal stuff you share sometimes. If you don't mind my asking..."

Lewis tensed.

"Not about the controversy. About your mental health issues."

"Ah. Go ahead." Lewis showed the most relief John had ever seen in someone to be asked about their mental illness. He had to be really torn up about the fight with Clark. 

"Do you only do therapy, or do you also take medication?" John understood how it might be less unnerving to disclose the one without disclosing the other. 

"Both. Been on two for about twelve years now. Depression and anxiety." Lewis was feeling the cold too. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands and wove his fingers together.

"But they're not working?"

"They're doing their job as usual. Medication, in my experience, never makes it so you don't sink into that freezing lake when your mind starts pulling you down. It just keeps you from sinking more than a certain depth. Not enough to drown. Usually. But sometimes, suddenly, the freezing lake gets deeper. Life goes askew. Then what usually works isn't enough." 

A helicopter went by. Too far away to be loud, but in such a similar trajectory to the geese that you could pretend it was hunting them down. John felt like Lewis was summoning the courage to say something. So he waited.

"I sent her a text message. I thought she'd be asleep by that time. Her son was awake, though. Night terrors. So she was awake and - sorry, sorry, my therapist can't talk to me until tomorrow. I hope I'm not using you as a substitute. Is this too much? Tell me if it's too much."

"I actually, uh, appreciate this. A lot." _If his hero could hurt like this too..._

Lewis examined John's face, gauging his sincerity. "Okay. She got my text the moment I sent it. 'I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.' From Chief Joseph's surrender to the U.S. Army. End of the Nez Perce war. In retrospect it sounds a bit entitled of me. As if my pain could ever be comparable to his."

"It sounds like you were trying to be topical, though. Commenting on the whole. Situation. Thing." John waved his left hand around like he could trace his meaning in the air. Like that would give it shape.

"There's a thought. Hm. In any case, Sacagewea was the one who saved my life. But my former PA, John Pernia, happened to indirectly save it, in a way." Lewis got that sad smirk of considering something unfunny but very absurd. "This is something I don't share publicly."

"I won't tell."

"I believe you. I wouldn't lie about it if asked, but I prefer not to volunteer it. You see, I'm dyslexic. John - I'll call him Pernia..."

"John is a very common name."

Lewis nodded. "One of the very few advantages of being named 'Meriwether' is never getting your identity confused. Anyway, Pernia's duties included proofreading absolutely everything I wrote that was for public consumption. He also sometimes read things aloud for me, or changed a typeface into something I can process fast. He politely asked if I'd be offended if he found a job elsewhere after my downward spiral started. He was on my side, but the whole thing was getting ugly, and being associated with it might jeopardize his future options. I said, 'I don't own you. Of course. I'll write you a recommendation. Though you'll have to proofread it.'"

"You're much nicer than any boss I've had." Even discounting the one who'd pushed John against a wall and stroked his cheek. John hadn't technically worked for Charles Lee anyway. He'd been a much lower-ranking soldier on the same base. 

_'Pretty boy' is not, in fact, a rank. Sir._

_~~Keep at least ten paces away or I will shoot you, Lee. I will shoot to maim. You don't get to die if I still have to live.~~_

"John, are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"I try to be a nice boss, I guess. It's to compensate for being panicky and high-maintenance. Fair's fair." Lewis' earnestness outshone what was left of the sunset. "This is how his departure helped save my life: I realized that my various farewell letters and stipulations were full of spelling and punctuation errors. The worst thing was that I misspelled Sacagewea's name multiple times. In multiple ways. The media would have a field day. Sacagewea would be so hurt. Insult to injury. I always try to shut down people don't make an effort to say her name. I realize people have speech impediments or have native languages with different phonemes and so on. But people should try. And people should try to spell her name correctly. So I had to crumple up all the nice printouts I'd left on my dining table and go back to the Word documents. Sacagewea showed up before I was done."

During the year after undergrad that John spent working and building up some savings, John had supplemented his clothing-store shelf-stocking job with freelance copyediting work. He'd never imagined that a freakout over typos could have such a powerful ripple effect. That was the way of ripple effects, he supposed. "Wow," he said. Eloquent Laurens is eloquent. 

"Yeah." After a long pause, out of nowhere, Lewis said, "That drawing your friend showed me. Alexander. That was pretty good."

John tried to say thank you, but it came out as, "Thk."

"Rough and wonky, of course, but you had to use a felt pen and low-quality paper. Plus you're right handed, yes? So you would have had to twist at a really odd angle. I bet the lighting wasn't ideal. How much time did you have?"

Peggy gave John an extra five minutes to get to an adequate stopping point. He showed up to art therapy at least five minutes late, though, and he lost almost ten minutes talking to Alexander and gathering materials. Then factor in chatting with Pierre and Franklin, Alexander twitching, adjusting the sling and the arm again and again..."Cumulatively, about thirty minutes. A bunch of interruptions."

"Mm. How much training have you had?"

"High school art and bio, nothing special. Bachelor's in biology with a concentration in ecology. A little over halfway through my graduate course. I've finished the majority of the anatomy requirements, did introductory drawing, one live-model figure drawing class..." He needed to abandon his fear of indignity, like Alexander said. "I've also traced or copied all the drawings in those two books of yours over and over. I can do several of them from memory now. It's what I used to do late at night instead of acknowledging my feelings or talking to someone."

Lewis seemed torn between pity and admiration. "Oh dear. Given all this context, though, I'd enjoy seeing what you can do given proper materials and enough time."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You're serious." At Lewis' raised eyebrow, John took the plunge. "I'll see if I can get permission to print out some things. I have a portfolio uploaded to Google Drive."

"There's a thought. You could also call me over to look at a computer screen, though I admit I prefer hard copies of things if it's feasible. I've been so busy with politics lately it feels like I haven't gotten any actual work done. Sometimes I think..."

That was when Alexander flung the back door open. "Yo! Sad Nature Dude and Precious Cinnamon Roll! I'm here with blankets. You guys are cold, aren't you? You so are. It's like every single person here is better at others-care than self-care, honestly."

By process of elimination, John determined that he must be Precious Cinnamon Roll. Maybe someone should explain that term to Sad Nature Dude. Nobody deserved to be Confused _and_ Sad Nature Dude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:
> 
> \- There's no evidence Lewis was dyslexic, just really 18th century. I'm using it as representation/plot device. However, he spelled Sacagewea's name EIGHT (8!) different ways. *ETA: I myself accidentally used a less common variant spelling for this fic, and it's tricky to go back and change every instance. The other stories in this series use the more common spelling as a compromise.
> 
> \- York was the name of Clark's personal slave on the expedition.
> 
> \- John Pernia was Lewis' personal servant, a free man of slave descent, for a portion of the expedition. Lewis died with his finances a total mess, so Pernia appealed to Jefferson personally to receive his fair share of pay for his work on the expedition. Jefferson refused. You don't say.
> 
> \- Both of them said and did problematic stuff. I've picked and chosen what serves this story's subplots.
> 
> \- Clark became legal guardian of Sacagewea's son and paid for his education and adored him. And named his own firstborn "Meriwether". 
> 
> \- Most of what I know about medical illustration comes from a talk a medical illustrator gave to my high school art class this one time. If you know better, please educate me. Nicely, though. I can't exactly do in-depth research AND update this often AND write my real novel AND have a job and life and stuff.


	27. Overwhelm Them With Integrity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warning:
> 
> \- Brief reference to attempt at patient abuse (unsuccessful)
> 
>  
> 
> Dedication:  
> Everything after "Washington began." is a love letter to OscarthegrouchILOVETRASH

On Sunday morning, Phyllis wrapped up the last segment of Morning Group with a provocative prompt. (Since Phyllis only worked two days and two nights a week, she worked both mornings and evenings on the weekend to qualify as full-time.) 

"If you could only give one piece of advice to everyone here, what would it be? It doesn't necessarily have to be profound. Mine is that before you decide you are in total despair, check to see if you've eaten recently, had some water within the past hour, taken your medications, and slept at least six hours in the past twenty-four. Get some exercise. Mild is fine. Then maybe have a comfortable bath or shower at the next opportunity. Evaluate yourself after you've resolved these issues and work from there." Phyllis regarded them all with eyes that had seen certain behavior patterns over and over again.

Alexander cleared his throat. "People are more likely to hear your arguments if you shout them at the top of your lungs. However, they are less likely to take those arguments seriously."

"You actually know that? Huh. First evidence I've seen." Thomas went right into his advice before Alexander was done spluttering. "Don't take a cold shower and then go running on a freezing morning. If you have my hairstyle, you end up looking like the Icicle Yeti."

Pierre snickered. "Icicle Yeti! Um. When you land after a long flight, don't use the first bathroom you see. The second bathroom is less than five minutes' walk away and - icicle yeti - less crowded."

"Are you gonna be stuck on that phrase for the next few hours?" Thomas asked. Not annoyed. Curious.

"Maybe."

Lewis said, "When I go to the dentist and am cringing at the noises the instruments make, I close my eyes and pretend I'm listening to hungry baby birds during a rainstorm. It might work for you. I don't know." He shrugged. He was wearing the hat from last evening again, even though they were indoors. Its diamond pattern really didn't match the L.L. Bean catalog/confused civil servant crossover look he had going on. A nice button-up shirt with a fleece zippered jacket, rugged cargo pants, and black loafers. Like he was supposed to go to a meeting but forgot and went for a hike. Packing in a hurry while not in the best frame of mind will do that. 

John was lucky all his clothes looked like they were for the same setting and formality level. Lafayette had declined to explain why John's duffel bag contained that fake mustache. John suspected Lafayette didn't know either. Now advice...advice...he couldn't think of anything light or funny, but by now he was willing to say things that were neither.

"If you're going to have sex with your best friend, talk about it beforehand and don't do it because you're frightened of self-awareness. And because you've both had several pints of Sam Adams." Wait, that was confusing to everyone else. "To clarify, I'm referring to my best friend from before I met Lafayette."

"Ohhhhhhh," Pierre said. Before whispering 'icicle yeti'. 

"Sam Adams? Really?" Franklin asked, appalled.

"It was on sale."

Franklin nodded sagely. "Time is money."

"Really? That's your advice? It sounds like a fortune cookie." Alexander leaned forward as if to interrogate Franklin.

"You want more? Okay, when you're getting phone numbers, be sure to write the corresponding names. It saves embarrassment later. Also note who's a business contact and who's a potential booty call." 

James groaned. "Learn to leave well enough alone."

Phyllis looked at the wall clock. "Lewis, you have a video conference with your regular therapist in a few minutes, right?"

He jerked to attention "Oh, right! What do I do?"

Israel Bissel, part-time tech, beckoned to Lewis. (According to Pierre, Israel loved game shows and dreamed of going on Jeopardy. Alexander didn't know _everything_.) 

After Lewis left, Jay said, "When I'm in a crowd and there are too many people near me, I tell myself I'm covered in invisible spikes and they will keep me safe."

"Safe. That's a good one." Pierre thought for a moment. "Try walking and running around - safe - in skinny jeans before you buy them."

Alexander sighed in commiseration. Thomas nodded like this was the wisdom of the ages. 

Sam still sat on a stool instead of a regular chair. John wasn't squeamish about visualizing injuries. Part of his training. He felt sort of bad doing it with Sam's, though, and steered his attention towards Sam's thoughtful expression. "People misinterpret the intent of the exhortation to 'turn the other cheek'. In context of Jesus' cultural background, it doesn't signify letting others harm you without a fight. It means you overwhelm them with integrity. You should use your integrity and honor _to shame them for their behavior_."

John's face felt hot but his chest felt warm.

"In other news," Sam continued, looking straight at John, "I received an interesting letter from Doctor Washington this morning."

Washington clearly had a flair for the dramatic. He chose that moment to emerge from the nurses' station. "If you're close to finished, Phyllis, I'm taking over the exercise time for today."

Phyllis gave him a thumbs-up. "This is a good stopping point. Play nice, everyone."

"You don't work on Sundays, Geo-I mean, Doctor Washington," Alexander said.

"I wouldn't consider this work. More paying a debt. Mr. Lewis is occupied, correct? It's a shame Friedrich isn't here." 

Washington led them all out into open yard. And promptly sat on the grass in the middle of the field, splaying out his long legs. Unlike the times John had seen him in his office, Washington was wearing corduroys and a pullover. Nice casual, but still casual. Alexander was the only person who dared to enter Washington's personal bubble without an invitation. He sat on Washington's right side and adopted a similar pose. 

They all ended up in a circle of sorts, though James couldn't sit on things that weren't indoor furniture. (He was very proud of his recent ability to sit on tables as long as the tables didn't simultaneously have food on them.) Thomas stayed standing with him as a gesture of support. Pierre was methodically pulling up individual grass stems. 

"You said in your letter you'd explain what's happening next," Sam said. Then he addressed the group at large. "I'm all caught up now, by the way. I'm very touched. On a less serious note, Mr. Hancock has a huge signature."

"He's the only licensed practical nurse we have whom we discourage from handwriting prescriptions," Washington said, his mouth serious but the edges of his eyes crinkling. 

"Also, who is Button Gwinnett?"

"I'm afraid we don't have time for that right now, Reverend Seabury." Washington cautiously picked a dead leaf off Alexander's jacket, at the same speed and tentativeness with which you reach out to a feral kitten. Alexander allowed it. 

"I can - icicle yeti - email Friedrich anything you want me to," Pierre volunteered.

"Thank you, but I'll do it myself. The proceedings have reached a stage where they're not secret but remain sensitive. I still request that you keep this amongst the people present, and those I specifically name. Including Friedrich."

Franklin had taken one of his shoes off and was massaging his big toe. "That's why you're choosing a time when Lewis is busy."

Washington began. 

*********  
He confirmed what Alexander shared privately with John, and later and more breathlessly with the others. The King family and their company King's Imports & Exports had been legally and financially pressuring Vernon to cater to their whims and help them cover up the mental illnesses of their succeeding CEOs George I, II, and III. 

As any institution dealing with sensitive issues must, Vernon had a legal team. Therapist Tom Paine noticed some odd behavior from a member of their legal team and expressed his misgivings to Director Howe. Howe told him to drop it. Paine continued to be suspicious and informed Washington, since Washington and Howe had been battling it out over how to handle the Kings. Philip Schuyler, the senior lawyer on their legal team, got him to resign without a fuss and in exchange for not being brought in to any potential subsequent proceedings. Washington wasn't sure how that happened. It was interesting to note that therapist Angelica _Schuyler_ Church had a 'business lunch' with that person the day after he had that discussion with her father. And that his resignation was on Howe's desk less than two hours later.

To fill the gap left by the sudden departure, well-respected defense attorney Abigail Smith agreed to a temporary post. Then Tech Aaron Burr showed up at Washington's office to offer some suggestions regarding getting rid of Howe. At that point Aaron didn't know about the King thing. He'd independently concluded that Howe was corrupt, vicious, and not acting in their patients' best interests. Most of his suggestions didn't appeal to Washington, but his offer to enlist his wife Theodosia...that was useful. She was an excellent prosecuting attorney who did not work for Howe. Her career wouldn't be endangered if she eventually ended up taking him to court.

Now, patient John Adams genuinely needed to sort out his anxiety and paranoia issues. They'd sunk his former career as a fine defense attorney himself. Howe didn't need to know that John Adams was married to Abigail Smith. Or that John Adams was taking advantage of his stay to document George King's behavior from the inside. They would do everything they could to prevent a patient coming to harm, but if it did happen, they needed evidence that the signs had been there. The Petition would be very useful for both that and any case Vernon brought against Howe or the Kings. Washington was impressed and grateful. 

It was Nurse Eliza Schuyler's job to sweetly, gently, earnestly, oh-so-guilelessly discuss her worries with Howe. Again. Again. Recording every interaction where he decisively, yet vaguely dismissed her reasons why George King needed to be moved. She passed that along to Theodosia.

Art therapist Margarita "Peggy" Schuyler got a cup of coffee with a nice young woman, whom we'll call Sybil, a dissatisfied intern at King's Imports and Exports. Her OkCupid profile said she hated her boss. So much. SO MUCH. They talked about why. In the process, Sybil mentioned some compelling evidence that the King family had been bribing Howe. The subsequent dates weren't necessary for the mission, but life isn't just about mental hospital conspiracies. (Washington didn't want anyone to think Peggy was the sort of person who'd manipulate and abandon a potential datefriend like that.)

After the Incident, and John Laurens' staredown of Cornwallis, Hercules Mulligan wanted to know why Cornwallis had been so flagrantly disrespectful of patient rights. Cornwallis was a jerk, sure, but this was a new level. Night shift was a great time to find intel without being noticed. Hercules couldn't leave the patients all alone, though. So he and Cato took turns breaking into Cornwallis' office and looking for answers. 

Well, breaking in was a strong word. Custodian Button Gwinnett happily gave them the key.

Turns out Howe had given Cornwallis an emergency, last-ditch directive. Cornwallis was supposed to rifle through all the patients' property and plant various sharps among them. That way the regular staff could be scapegoated for massive incompetence. It didn't matter what trouble the patients got in. They must have thought that with only Maria, an inexperienced tech, and Paul, a nurse unfamiliar with this particular ward, it would be easy to trample over the patients.

John Laurens had negotiated with Cornwallis.

John Laurens had ended the siege. 

John Laurens had saved the day.

_Sam's voice in all this light, all this light. "You turned the other cheek to Cornwallis, John. I'll do the same to the Kings. I won't let them use my pain to harm this place of healing."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sybil Ludington and Israel Bissell both made longer emergency rides than Paul Revere did. Unfortunately for their level of fame, Paul Revere scans better in poetry.
> 
>  
> 
> But raven_aorla, why is this whole epic plot a summarized afterthought? Well, gentle reader:
> 
> \- I wanted a ridiculously elaborate parallel to the Revolution, but I am not made of time, sigh. I figure it's better to have a summarized afterthought than nothing.
> 
> \- This fic is about John Laurens getting better. Everything else is secondary. Therefore the epic plot is only important because it shows John that he can win.


	28. Able to Believe It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings:
> 
> \- Blink-and-miss-them eating disorder references
> 
> \- Someone is awkward about other characters' religions, not maliciously

Everyone was more subdued than usual after Washington's departure. Processing.

At lunch, Sam asked if anyone would be interested in giving him feedback on the sermon he was working on. "I don't want you to think I'm preaching to you. I would just appreciate a sounding board." 

Franklin, Jay, and James took him up on the offer. Sam decided to share his draft of "Why Trials are Not Punishments" out on the deck. It was a pretty day, after all. James fetched one of the blankets his OCD classified as "clean" to spread on a deck chair. Jay volunteered to pick it up and add it to the next shared laundry load. 

The Queer Trio ended up in a puppy pile on the Couch of Emotion. It took some maneuvering to accommodate John's injury, but they managed it.

"Nice hickey," Alexander told Pierre.

Pierre beamed. "Nice hickey _s_."

"Young people, I swear," Thomas said, swiveling as usual. He put his sunglasses on. 

"You should start making a really lame pun just before you do that," Alexander suggested. The two of them were being unusually pleasant to each other this afternoon. John wondered how long it would last.

"Why?"

Phyllis said, "It's a meme." She'd chosen the rocking chair for herself and was writing in a notebook.

"YEAHHHHHHHH." Pierre started giggling. 

"I feel a little bad for turning Sam down, but anything that reminds me of church brings up certain other memories." John didn't just mean his father. Or years of internalized homophobia. Martha Manning started out as his youth group friend. He'd always affectionately called her "Martian". He hadn't presented Angelica with that glass shard yet.

"That's extremely valid," Phyllis said. "I would have felt a little uncomfortable, though I wouldn't consider myself transgressing. Muslim, you see."

"Really? You?" Thomas sounded slightly too incredulous.

Phyllis was patient with him. "People define modesty in different ways. I happen to only cover my hair at the mosque or when visiting any relatives who have different standards, out of respect as a guest in their home. A long-sleeved shirt under my scrubs is perfect for work."

"Right. Am I, uh, being a tool?" Thomas wasn't only less antagonistic today. Also more apologetic. Washington should share earth-shattering revelations more often. 

"I appreciate that you are growing enough as a person to ask such questions. Only a little. I hear a lot worse."

Alexander asked, "Hey John, is it chill if I run my fingers through your hair? You sure? Awesome. Phyllis, I feel like I heard you were born in the Gambia."

"Yes. I came here very young, though. I remember not being pleased about it."

"I only ask because Lafayette's paternal grandmother was born in Senegal. Not Muslim, though. Bahá'í religious minority. Same with his parents-in-law. Since that grandma's his primary parent figure, he ended up being influenced, even if he's more agnostic."

Lafayette and Adrienne invited John to discuss religion once, but despite knowing how vastly more tolerant (and much less observant) his friends were compared to his father, he still found it too painful. So he knew very little about that aspect of their lives.

Phyllis rocked back and forth, serene. "It's a beautiful faith. It's tragic how the Iranian government persecutes believers in the very country of origin."

"I'm sort of a lukewarm Buddhist," Pierre volunteered. "My dad's agnostic, so my mom took the lead on my religious education. Hey John, can I..."

"Yes." Either Pierre's echopraxia was making him copy Alexander's movements, or he happened to really want to rub John's back. Fine either way.

"Is there such a thing as a hardcore Buddhist?" Thomas' efforts to join the conversation were not going well. John felt bad for him. In less than a week, John had started seeing Thomas as someone who used grandiose arrogance to cover up awkward loneliness. Like Alexander's weaponized brilliance shielding his insecurity.

"Hardcore Buddhist? Uh, yeah. Hardcore Buddhist cousin of mine's a monk, for example. Icicle yeti."

"I think the staff and patient body are still predominantly Christian, at least in background if not in belief." Alexander sat up. (Pierre faintly, incoherently protested the shift.) He called out to the tech on duty, who was carrying a large box to another room. "Hey, I don't really know you, because you only work here on Sundays, never on Saturdays. Out of demographic curiosity, are you Christian?"

"Guess!" Israel said cheerfully.

*******

That evening, Alexander entered their room with a large Tupperware in hand. "I totally understand you wanting to stay in here and relax during Visiting Hour today. Here's the summary. Turns out Sam's brother flew down from Canada to see him. That was interesting. Some Computer Science student drove all the way up from Virginia Tech to see Franklin. Kept calling him "Uncle Frank". Ada something. I think he was friends with her late father. Some poet dude who had mental health issues too? Who came here for an eating disorder but left with a bipolar diagnosis?"

"Were you eavesdropping?"

"It's not eavesdropping if they are loud and use many excited gestures in the middle of a garden. Anyway. Let's see. Jay was startled when he got a visitor named Deb. The important thing, though, is that Martha Washington stopped by to see me, and that she told me to give this to you." He handed the box to John.

It was a bunch of corn muffins. And a note saying, "IN HONOR OF THE DEFEAT OF SECURITY DIRECTOR ~~CORNWALLIS~~ CORNMUFFIN."

"She's got a really dry sense of humor most of the time, but once in a while she gets silly...those are good tears, right?"

"Yeah."

*******

"How are you feeling this Monday morning?" Doctor Washington asked John.

John bit his lip. "A lot."

"That's a big change."

"Huh. You're right." Last Tuesday John had felt very little. "Tell your wife they're great muffins, and thank you."

That eye-smile again. "I will."

"What's the verdict?"

"The evidence overwhelmingly suggests that you suffer from major depression, as I first suspected. I believe you would most likely benefit from sertraline, formerly under the brand name Zoloft. It's common, well-understood, inexpensive in generic form. Here's a list of side effects and risks." Washington handed him a brochure.

John accepted it but focused on reading Washington's face, rather than the words. He used to wish his father would look at him like that. "How long would I have to stay here after starting?"

"Technically, as a voluntary patient you can leave at any point after one day's notice. I would recommend at least two more weeks here, though. Possibly three if there are any complications. So I can be sure it's both safe and effective before you have to contend with the pressures of the outside world. You'd take your first dose tomorrow morning." Washington glanced at the ceramic unicorn. "Can I 'be real' a second? Just a millisecond?"

"Mm hm." The brochure was hot in John's hand.

"From the little I've seen, and the lot I've heard, you're vastly braver and better than you believe you are. You deserve to be able to believe it. That's what I want out of this. What do you want?"

"I want..." The brochure was hot in his hand and a feeling (hope?) was tight in his throat. 

He thought of Alexander throwing the diagnostic manual in the fish pond, the long paper Alexander wrote, the long paper Washington wrote back. Pierre, humming and switching languages, putting his sarcastic spin on other people's words to give them his own meaning. Eliza in the drinking game, baring her soul in exchange for her charges doing likewise. Hercules there, just there, as John cried for reasons that were all from inside himself. Lewis' life saved because he couldn't bear to leave behind mangled versions of his best friend's name. Angelica thanking him for being vulnerable.

He thought of Lafayette burying the gun.

Breathed. Once. Twice. "I want to get better. I don't know if I will, but I want. I want to try."

"We'll be with you while you do, son." Washington flinched when he realized what he'd said. 

John managed a small smile to show that it was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of this chapter is heavily inspired by a reader asking me, in private, about what religions might be represented among the characters.
> 
> Phillis Wheatley was most likely born in the part of West Africa that is now Senegal and the Gambia. The former uses French as its official language; the latter uses English. Both countries have religious freedom but are majority Muslim. I've gone with the more common modern spelling of her name for this version of the character.
> 
> There are a lot of Senegalese immigrants in France. Which is only fair. It's, like, the bare minimum of decency a former colonial power can offer. I think I've mentioned before that while it's totally legitimate to ignore the real-life racial implications of using the Hamilton broadway cast in an AU, I've chosen to address it semi-realistically in this 'verse.
> 
> Besides being plausible backstory, I think the core values of Bahá'í believers are well-suited to the Sharps Hour version of Lafayette.
> 
> I have no knowledge of the historical Israel Bissell's religion, but the joke was begging to be made. I considered making Thomas ethnically Jewish because Daveed Diggs is, but you don't make an antagonist the only member of a specific minority in your narrative. That is not cool. This is why both Franklin and George King are schizophrenic in this fic.
> 
> I continue to mess with timelines to bring in cool history people. Franklin is always torn between "Carousing with your dad was awesome, when you could get him to calm down and eat something," and "Wow! Look at you and your revolutionary computer programming, genius girl!"


	29. One is Not Like the Others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad that we're getting close to the end? Have you checked out Departure Days? Or the shiny new Break Room Moments? Perhaps they will help.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings:
> 
> \- Brief internalized victim-blaming/gaslighting  
> \- More explicit self-loathing than usual
> 
> \- Reference to technically underage drinking (U.S. laws, which I consider ridiculous) if you do the backstory age math, which I did just now.

"I don't want to talk about Charles Lee anymore, for now. I hope that's not - that isn't cowardice, right?"

"Having a painful conversation over an extended period of time rather than all at once is perfectly fine. Logical. In this case I consider it advisable. The only cowardice I've observed today came from a scumbag general."

"Oh."

"Do you know that you're shivering?"

"I just don't get it, Angelica. He hardly fucking touched me. Only his hands. Only shoulders or higher. Why does it...just, why."

"Your reaction is completely legitimate, John. I can share some info on gaslighting and internalized victim blaming, if you want."

"Mm. Thanks, but later. I want to talk about something else."

"Certainly."

"...Help me."

"Lee seems like one of the three big specters in your mind."

"My father. And Martha Manning."

"One is not like the others."

"And?"

"I have an idea I'd like you to consider."

 

******

~~Dear Martha,~~

~~Dear Martian,~~

~~Don't delete this right away, please, I need to apologize~~

Hi,

I hope you're still using this email address ~~. ~~Not that I deserve to~~~~

 ~~ ~~I'm so goddamn sorry~~ ~~ When I was in the hospital after ~~I managed to ruin your life in two different ways~~ the last time we spoke, you sent me a card. I wasn't in a good headspace, as you might imagine, and threw away the card without reading it.

I regret that. I should have heard you out. I knew you were transferring ~~~~because your farewell party was why we drank so much in the first place~~ ~~ and I wouldn't simply run into you again. The ball was in my court to continue the conversation.

It's possible you didn't want to start a conversation. It's my fault that I don't know.

My new therapist ~~~~in a psych ward, again, because I tried, again~~ ~~ advised me to make an effort. So I can stop wondering if maybe, just maybe, you'd answer.

I miss you. I have missed you. I will miss you. I am, at this moment in time, missing you. Considering it's been a few years, I doubt it'll stop on its own.

~~~~Sometimes I have this nightmare that you had the child, and I married you to protect you both, and I try for awhile but I run away and you both end up alone, broke, and hating me.~~ ~~

~~~~It's better than the one where the clinic has a terrible accident and I don't walk out of it with you. I don't leave with my arm around you, asking if you want to get pizza because I can't think of what else to say. It was surprisingly good pizza, but I can't eat Papa John's pizza anymore. In that nightmare I go the bridge a week sooner than I did irl. Nobody stops me.~~ ~~

I've managed to make other friends since, against all odds. You know me. Or you did. I would love for you to meet them. As with you, I'm constantly wondering what they see in me. Or saw.

If you don't want to talk ever again I understand. Please, though, I'd really like to know what the card said.

~~~~Yours, Earthling~~ Sincerely, Jack~~

Thank you for your time.

John Laurens

****

Earthling,

The card said I was sorry. That I need some distance but don't hate you. That maybe you could give me a phone call when you're ready.

It also said that I'm a lesbian and was pulling the EXACT same stunt you were. I have just as much to be sorry about, if not more.

_All those things are still true._

Martian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last section "happens" a few hours after the first, but I wanted to keep it tidy. It wasn't like he hit send and PING! RECONCILIATION!


	30. Undeniable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Warning:
> 
> Potentially unnerving dream imagery

The current tweak of Alexander's sedative was making him drowsy and amiable rather than essentially unconscious. It helped that he was not making up for weeks of deprivation anymore. At least not as much. He and John lay in their beds talking into friendly darkness. Impressively, Alexander's speech had slowed to the pace of most people John knew.

John finished leading the discussions about his first medication dose tomorrow and hearing back from his estranged friend. Good things to talk about, but tiring. He tapered off.

"Wanna know why Thomas likes swivel chairs so much?" Alexander asked.

"Besides how they're sort of fun?"

"That too, but he's the heir to a swivel chair inventor."

"Huh."

"Wanna know why the door to the deck and the door that leads out of our little yard aren't locked, just alarmed?"

Mysterious how Alexander sounded so adorable like this. John answered gently, "Because they're our fire exits. We're informed on a regular basis."

"I was gonna say, 'Because someone scared them!', but you ruined it. You ruined my pun."

"Sorry."

"S'okay. Wanna know why I don't like being called Alex?"

"Actually I really do, but I didn't want to push." The wind was blowing hard outside tonight. John curled into a pillbug as best he could. He looked forward to being able to lie on his right shoulder again. He realized he was looking forward to something.

"I was lucky when it came to foster care, really, and if I'd been a mentally. Standard, maybe? Kid. It would have probably all been fine and I wouldn't have bounced around so much. One family said they weren't equipped for behavioral problems, but they weren't lying when they said they'd made an effort. System's still flaned. Flawed. It shouldn't be about luck. That's the problem..."

"Mm."

"That's a different conversation, though. The relevant part is that I spent some time in a group home with an Alexandra and an Alexis. Some others too. For dinner and stuff they'd shout, "Raul, Tamika, Alex!" and, uh, it was understood that the Alex meant all three of us."

"That sounds really...de-individualizing. Is that a word?"

"I mean we got fed and clothed and not beaten or anything. Not like the horror stories. But I felt invisible. I won't be invisible. I won't be denied."

"Someone would have a hard time doing it to you now. You're really undeniable." John ventured a cautious opinion he'd been contemplating since yesterday. "People are acting like it's such a big deal that I stood up to Cornwallis. If I hadn't been there, I'm sure you would have."

"Yeah? I woulda done it by punchin' him in the face. Giving him an excuse to get me in an armlock on the ground. Trans'erred to the second floor. James was about, about, uh, to have a panic attack. Pierre was...incoherent...Thomas can't handle...situations...that intellectual debate, shmoozing....or mowing, I mean throwing money can't...fix. Mmm. It is ridiculously...easy to trivialize schizophrenics' concerns...even ones as smart as Franklin....Jay...y'know...you were the...don't deny, John, I hate being...you're needed..."

John whispered Alexander's name. He didn't mind the lack of reply.

 

********

In John's dream, there's something different about his clothes. He's too busy to worry about it. His horse has gone missing and his sabre's stuck in a Redcoat somewhere. Also Alexander is lying on the ground with red seeping out of a space between his ribs.

Aaron (what's with the clothes) is holding Alexander's hand, saying, "Wait, wait, I'm sorry, wait," over and over. Eliza's got a first-aid kit and a whole bucket of enchanted Cheerios. She's taking care of him. Good. Someone here knows what to do.

"Stay alive, that would be enough," she says, pausing to kiss Alexander's forehead. There's a video camera tucked into the folds of her dress, recording everything Alexander says and does.

"John," Alexander says weakly, "Take my gun."

"I don't want to shoot anyone."

"That's okay. It only shoots at the sky."

"Lafayette doesn't like it when I have guns."

Alexander tries to sit up. Aaron firmly holds him down. So Alexander begs, "You gotta help Lafayette. I promised him I'd help. I promised but I can't, I can't, he's so far away..."

John takes the escalator. His buckled shoes clack on the smooth flagstones. Pierre's trying to talk to John but he can't say his own words, he can only quote the previous conversation. His clothes are like John's but covered in snow, with a name tag saying "HI! I'M FROM FRANCE! I'M HERE TO SUPPORT YOUR CAUSE!"

"Help Lafayette," is the thing Pierre says most often. He's coughing pretty badly, clutching at his throat.

They find Lafayette trapped in the deep end of a dry swimming pool, but it's much deeper than a swimming pool should be. Thomas, in a velvet magenta coat and wearing his aviator shades, is lowering Lafayette some food in a basket on the end of a fishing line. 

Angelica has a rope ladder. "The ladder's too short and they're making me wear this stupid dress. I wouldn't know what to do about the chains anyway." Lafayette's chained so thoroughly that he can hardly move.

Pierre sounds like he's choking. John sees something coming out of his mouth. Puts an arm around him, steadies him, and pulls out the key. It's an old key. It looks like it's hundreds of years old.

Wheezing but able to stand, Pierre says, "Don't go back to South Carolina."

"But I have to," John tells him.

"No, you have to stay here and help your friends."

"You don't need me. You all have each other."

"Let us decide if we need you!" Lafayette shouts. "Now get down here! You owe me a party on October 28!"

Washington takes the key. He has always been here. John hadn't known, but Washington has always been here. When he puts a hand on John's right shoulder it doesn't hurt. 

"The war is over. Let your enemies retreat. No more chasing battles you don't want to survive, son."

John holds back tears. Then remembers it's all right if he doesn't.

"I brought medicine for all of us," Alexander says. In normal clothes now. Not bleeding. Hands cupped. Outstretched. Brimming.

 

*********

Lewis stood immediately ahead of John. "Sertraline's treated me well, but it has a tendency to make dreams more vivid. Not necessarily odder. Just more vivid." He hid a yawn behind his hand. 

"I hope it doesn't make my dreams odder. They're pretty intense already. How are you doing?"

"Hm. I would say I have the will to live, but not the capacity to handle life."

"Yet?" John watched Thomas swallow three pills dry and dramatically crumple the tiny paper cup. The kind of tiny paper cup used for self-serve condiments. James rolled his eyes and accepted some water with his own dose.

"I hope. Sacagewea told me that Andrew Jackson didn't even read my resignation. I want to draft a few alternate versions before I hand it in myself. Possibly by gluing it to his immense forehead. The idea is giving me strength. Would you be willing to look the drafts over for me, please? Give me your thoughts? And corrections?"

"Me?"

"Yes."

Pierre interrupted, "Guys! Guys! Listen to me talk! Listen! I admit that I'm tugging on my sleeve a lot, but listen!" He was still in pajamas. His pajamas had gummy bears on them. He was also wearing a comically oversized robe with sleeves that hid his hands. John had seen the robe before, but not on Pierre.

"Oh my, good for you. What changed?" Franklin tucked his newspaper under his arm and put his reading glasses in his shirt pocket. 

"Turns out that my anxiety was exacerbating the Tourette's by making it harder for me to suppress my - good for you what changed - dammit."

Alexander turned around in line to give Pierre a hug. "Hey, even shiny new meds and technique take more than a few days to work their magic."

"Work their magic. It had better happen eventually. I can't get by on my sharp wit and pretty face forever."

"John, we can talk shop later. Nudge me after breakfast." Lewis turned, thanked Aaron, and gulped down his water-meds combination like he was taking a shot.

"You're consenting to medication now?" Jay, at the very back of the line, asked Sam quietly.

Sam squirmed a little. "I'm investigating the possibility that the Lord wished to teach me that I have made serious errors in judgment."

"Whatever works, but sounds like a really harsh way for the Lord to go about it," Aaron said under his breath. In a normal voice: "I hope this works out for you, John. We believe in you."

"I'm not sure I do, but I believe in the people who believe in me, so..."

Alexander put a hand on John's upper left arm. Acknowledgment. _I am here. You are here. We are here together, and I am right behind you._

The pill was small and blue. It was supposed to be flavorless if you didn't make the mistake of biting it or holding it in your mouth for too long.

To John, it tasted like possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not everything in the dream is symbolic. All dreams have some random weirdness, so don't go into agonies over, say, the Cheerios.


	31. Placeholder Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real chapter 31 is coming soon, but I can't manage it today. Check out the new Holiday Seasons chapter as a consolation prize.

Gentle readers, something's come up and it's using up my time and spoons. Grad certificate application drama of the "whoops, we didn't tell you about this annoying time-consuming requirement until two weeks before deadline". Nothing dire. Definitely today, maybe tomorrow, possibly another one or two. I want to give the lovely denoument all the care and attention it deserves.

But hooray! By providence, I happened to write "Guy Fawkes Night with the Kings" a few days ago. I wrote it when I was inspired and actually had time and spoons, but didn't post it because I want the holidays in that fic to be chronological. Now that "Halloween with the Madisons" is up, it slots right in.

I hope you enjoy, and that it tides you over for however many days until I get my act together. Wish me luck.

<3 raven_aorla


	32. Epilogue Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking, hooray, I've gotten part of this lengthy epilogue done, it's at a good stopping point, I can finish and post it tomorrow...
> 
> Wait, if it's at a good stopping point, why not just post what I have? I'm the one who decides the chapter count.
> 
> :)

_October 4_

John accepted his cell phone from Eliza. He'd checked his texts and voicemail during various Sharps Hours during his stay, but this time he wasn't going to give it back to her. 

"You've got all your meds, right?"

"Right."

"And made outpatient appointments?"

"Yes. I had to stop Doctor Washington from making all of them for me." Eventually John asked Angelica to have a gentle but firm chat with Washington about John needing to learn to handle these things on his own. 

Angelica did, and she gave John an annotated list of recommended therapists throughout both Virginia and the DC metropolitan area. ("In case you gravitate to DC for work, like many young people around here eventually do.") Washington sheepishly gave John a similar list of psychiatrists, with a scribbled open invitation to visit his home as freely as Alexander and Lafayette did.

By this point only Sam, Jay, and Lewis remained out of the original group John had spent his first week here with. He'd said goodbye with each of them privately. Lewis gave him a hug/handshake combination and demanded yet another promise that they stay in touch. Sam and Jay were both doing much better now. It wasn't as if John disliked the newer guys, but those three were special. 

"Did Aaron tell you what the traditional staff-to-patient goodbye is?" Eliza asked.

"Hercules beat me to it. Considering the hours he works, that's unfair." Aaron held out a lone sock. "Your roommate gave me this. Told me you left it on the floor."

"Thanks," John said, accepting the sock. 

After Alexander left John started sharing the room with Louis Bourbon. Louis had been in a car accident that gave him mild brain damage, which caused some personality changes, memory loss, and irritability. He was here to learn some coping mechanisms for the brain stuff and to deal with the psychological trauma. Came across as kind of spoiled and arrogant, but not a bad person really. Enthusiastic about locks and lockpicking. He frequently joked that the scar on his neck from the accident made it look like someone had tried to cut off his head.

He didn't match Alexander, but nobody could.

"Do you mind if we say it anyway?" Eliza asked.

John hefted his duffel bag's shoulder strap so it balanced better. He didn't need the sling anymore. He still had to baby his right shoulder, and to a certain extent he would always need to - but it could _move_. "I would love you to."

Eliza counted to three, and she and Aaron chorused, "Good luck, we'll miss you, and we hope you never have to come back!" Eliza smiled and went off to help someone who needed her.

Then Aaron opened the double doors. He imbued it with a certain grandeur.

"This month felt like years," John told him.

"I hear that a lot," Aaron said.

"Not in a bad way, I mean."

"I hear that too, and every time it makes me glad I switched careers. Go to Penelope. I don't need to escort you."

Penelope gave John the same same goodbye while he signed the necessary exit forms in the lobby. She continued, "Your friend got here a few minutes ago. She's using the restroom."

That was Lafayette's car outside. Was Lafayette indisposed and Adrienne here in his place? John turned on his phone. One new text.

_Consider it Welcome Home & early Happy Birthday. Kansas isn't far. She insisted on Economy ticket. :/_

"Earthling?"

John looked up from his phone. His words stuck in his throat. 

She'd cut her hair short. It was a good look on her. She wasn't wearing makeup. She'd always hated wearing makeup but always worn it anyway. She looked like she was going to cry. John probably did too.

His bag thunked to the floor. Unimportant. There were a million things he hadn't said.

"Permission to hug?" he asked, stepping forward.

"Oh god, like, eons ago." Martha Manning wrapped her arms around him. Avoiding the shoulder. He'd eventually told her about it in one of their emails.

She was here and she was real. He wasn't imagining it. "How - you're - how'd we get here, Martian?"

"Right now I don't care. It doesn't matter how. We did." She laugh-sniffled into his Steam Powered Giraffe t-shirt. "Forgiveness, can you imagine?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion will be elaborated on in John's chapter of Departure Days, don't you worry.


	33. Epilogue Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not be able to post more today, but in any case, I think this does well stylistically as its own bitty chapter.

**Birthday card received on October 27:**

Happy Birthday! 28 On The 28th!

I Hope My Work-a-rounds Are Not To Irritating. You May Or May Not Re-member Our Discussion Of My Uniq Methods For Improving My Ease and Others Compe-hension Of My Writing In Absens Of Aid Or Spell Check. Normal Punc-tu-ation Worsens It.

Thru This I Shew My Trust In You Not to Mock. And I Provide A Final Warning Befor You Commit To Our Plan. Also SACAGEWEA (I Always Check Now) Says Hand Written Cards Are More Heart-Warming Than E-Mail.

Next Time E-MaiL Me In Double Spaced Arial Or Verdana Font For Fast-est Response. Please. Or Give Me A Call If Yr Moods Permit. Let Me ~~No~~ Know Status Of Plan.

There Is No Species of Magicicada W. 27 Yr Juvenil Stage But I Think You See The Meaning. Yr Adult-hood Will Be Far Longer Tho.

Warmly

M. LEWIS

_[[Hand-drawn scientific-quality illustration of a 17-year cicada, which spends that many years underground before emerging. The cicada is wearing a party hat.]]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love it if, say, the Powhatan had told the settlers at Jamestown that the appearance of the 17-year cicadas meant the world was ending. It sure is impressive.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://youtu.be/0JJz36rSob0)


	34. Epilogue Part Final

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My second guest contribution to the "Don't Be Shocked When Your His'try Book Mentions Me" series is up! It's called "In a Hunger-Pang Frame". The historical, recently resurrected Hamilton is in a gay bar for research purposes. As you've come to expect from me, there are tons of references.
> 
> Onward!

_October 28_

The celebration would be at his adoptive couple's home, a comfortable walking distance of John's tiny closet (hah) of an apartment. 

(That was how Lafayette had gotten to him in time on That Night. It was about five minutes' sprint if you were a distraught cheetah of a Frenchman.)

He was summoned for lunch. Both Lafayette and Adrienne were still in class and at work, respectively, but John had a spare key to their excessively adorable little house. Window boxes full of flowers. A magnolia tree with a partially-full bird feeder dangling from a branch. A welcome mat that said, "Friends & Family & Hired Pros & Sellers of Girl Scout Cookies Only".

John smiled as he approached the house; Alexander's car was in the driveway. The second John opened the door, Alexander asked, "Did you really get a job offer from Sad Nature Dude?"

"A. He just walked in. B. You should start with 'Happy Birthday!'" Pierre waved from his position curled up in the beanbag chair. Adrienne had taken the previous day off and fetched Pierre yesterday evening. He was too anxious about his physical tics sabotaging him to get a driver's license. Lafayette was going to drive him the ninety minutes home on Sunday. John gathered that this was similar to the procedure for Pierre's usual monthly-ish visits.

Pierre had withdrawn from his classes for the semester without academic penalty thanks to his school's Office of Disability Services. His parents would have preferred that he spend the rest of it with them in San Francisco, but he belonged to so many student clubs that he persuaded them to let him stay until Winter Break. He lived off-campus, so there wasn't an issue with student housing. 

Alexander slowly climbed out of the Couch of Feeling. "Pierre's right. Happy birthday, QP." They'd agreed to call each other that because "buddy" wasn't completely accurate. "Queerplatonic" was not only lengthy, but attempts to make it a noun just made it longer. As a bonus "QP" sounded like "cutie".

"Thanks, QP. How are you doing?" John asked, toeing off his shoes. Unlike Lafayette, Adrienne had grown up having to pick up after herself and was the one who had trained her husband to do the same. She liked guests to leave shoes by the door on the allotted mat. A wicker basket held slippers for anyone who might want to use a pair in the house.

"Ugh." Alexander shuffled to John and wrapped his arms around him. "The drive was worth it but unkind. I left early so I can be at my best by dinner. If I could go back in time... _'Don't whine, Alex, it's good to spend time outdoors. It's just a mosquito bite. You're imagining things.'_ I want to fill a bathtub with deer ticks and shove that particular foster parent in. I'm getting so little done!"

In typical Alexander fashion, his original idea after leaving Vernon had been for him to spend five days with the Washingtons at most, go stay with a high school friend named Ned Stevens up in DC, and do some temporary volunteer work for the Human Rights Campaign while further refining the essays he'd written while inpatient. That wasn't Manic Alexander. That was Normal Alexander. Manic Alexander wouldn't have agreed to a whole five days of inactivity and would have tried to commute back to New York on a regular basis and do stuff there too.

Unfortunately, Recurring-Lyme-Disease Alexander had struck first. Now he was strictly reading, writing, and letting the Washingtons fuss over him until his joints stopped hurting so much. They weren't the only problem, but they were his least favorite. (It had been Martha Washington, those first few months caring for him, who suggested that some of Alexander's ailments might not be psychosomatic depression symptoms and should get checked out.)

Driving here in his present condition had been a big deal. John had sold his own car back when his life was crumbling, so they hadn't physically met up since Alexander's discharge. John gently hugged him. He quoted the song Hercules had introduced to John and John later introduced to Alexander: "'This is my body, and I live in it...'"

"'It's not perfect, but it's mine.' Yeah, I know. I just got here, but Pierre claims there is a dazzling array of sandwich ingredients in the kitchen waiting for us. Lafayette will be home by four, Adri just after five."

"What ingredients?" Sometimes Adrienne baked bread herself, and Lafayette had been experimenting with vegetable pickling techniques. Seriously. They were ridiculous.

John's ability to taste food had started creeping back after a week on medication. Voltaire, sitting next to him that fateful meal, had been amused by John's expression of wonder: _"It's cheddar. It really is."_

"What ingredients? I'm not sure. I was a bit distracted at the time." As Pierre emerged from his nest, John noticed that he was wearing one of Lafayette's old Tintin tees over a long-sleeved shirt, and that those might actually be Adrienne's jeans.

"I'm thrilled for you," Alexander said dryly. "How's your Foolish Attractive Gelatinous Creature doing these days?"

"Reckless Alluring Candied Beast is doing well, and amazingly not yet tired of the joke. Friedrich's been teaching me home repair, actually. He says a well-ordered bathroom means a well-ordered living space."

It wasn't until they were eating that Alexander remembered where he'd started. "Oh, so, re Sad Nature Dude?"

"Oh. So Angelica and I agreed that it would be good for me to take as many of my remaining courses online as possible. While I continue to learn how to cope with..."

"Existing?" Alexander shook his head at Pierre's fastidious bread crust removal and grabbed the crusts off his plate.

Pierre paused. "Oh, do you like bread crusts? Sorry."

"Not particularly," Alexander said, eating them. 

John had noticed that if Alexander was nauseous he would refuse food, but if it was already on his plate he would eat every last crumb. If Alexander got distracted part way through and left the food, he would come back to finish it if permitted, and got upset if someone had thrown it out in the meantime. It was okay if someone else ate it, though. As long as it wasn't wasted. 

Speaking of which, Alexander clearly didn't like his experimental gherkin but didn't want to admit it. John took matters into his own hands. He concluded that Lafayette needed to ease up on the salt. "Existing. Yeah. I managed to turn the digital art tools course into an independent study where I can have an instructor help me in person. Once I'm done with that, between Angelica and Washington being authoritative on the phone and my advisor feeling sorry for me, I should be able to free myself for a move to Vienna."

"Wait, Austria?" Pierre sounded upset. His glass of water was paused midway to his mouth.

"Vienna, Virginia. My distance from you would be about the same, just in a different direction." John wanted to squeeze Pierre tightly for that huge sigh of relief he gave at the clarification.

"I could visit you by public transport, then. Train station to subway station. Right?" Alexander took one of John's potato chips with a sly wink.

"Yes. Lewis sent me a contract to look over. It wouldn't just be PA stuff, but a sort of apprenticeship. He's been getting requests for more books and educational materials for years now that he hasn't been able to get to thanks to government work. Now that he's quit, he says he can take on some of those projects. When he does, he needs someone to lighten the load."

"A right hand man," Alexander suggested.

"I guess."

"Hey, is it true Andrew Jackson's gonna run for president? Because..." Pierre shuddered.

Alexander shuddered as well. "Twenty bucks says he gets nominated."

"I know better than to ask Lewis about things like that. Eleanor Roosevelt's thinking of taking a shot, I believe." John could taste things now, but his stomach could still only hold so much at a time thanks to his long period of undereating. Maybe he should cover this with plastic wrap.

"If I had a dime every time someone says she's riding on her husband's coattails, I'd have enough money to bail myself out for punching all those people in gut. It doesn't matter what you think of her policies. That's just misogyny."

Pierre looked back and forth between his friends. He was stuck swirling his right ring finger on his collarbone, but he didn't pay it any mind. "You know what we should do after lunch while we're waiting for our hosts?"

"What?" John knew his thing with Lewis was a little odd, but Sacagewea said Lewis had met his previous PA in Alcoholics Anonymous. Something about only being comfortable working in close quarters with people who'd already seen him cry. John was grateful that Pierre and Alexander didn't care how he met Lewis. They'd have to come up with a cover story in the future, for the general public.

Alexander raised an eyebrow. "Cuddle and talk about boys?"

"I was going to say cuddle and talk about what we've been doing since Vernon, which may include boys. I have layers."

"Birthday guy decides." Alexander tried to make an expansive gesture but ended up wincing.

John put a hand on Alexander's back. "Sounds great."

******

"You know, when I said you must invite me to your birthday, and when I said we could have a funeral for the gun - I didn't mean they were to be the same event." Lafayette pointed at a small clump of sunflowers. "Here."

Adrienne had finished changing out of her work clothes and joined them, carrying a melodica. "They turn to the sun. I offered to help Gilbert dig, you know. He declared that it was something he must do himself. I held an umbrella over him when it started raining. C'est la vie."

"I like your new braids," Alexander said. "Not that the 'fro wasn't nice."

"Thank you. It was time for a change. Now I know two of you wanted to sing a song you liked to commemorate the sad passing of that _thing_ " under the soil..." Adrienne sometimes shouted or scolded, but John had never heard her snarl before. _That thing._

"But we realized it made more sense for it to be songs John likes and knows well. Adrienne arranged it. I made lyric sheets for Alexander and Pierre. Alexander, follow along as best you can. Three songs. Pierre already knows the tunes." Lafayette pulled the sheets out of a pocket folder.

"Pierre already. They threatened _not to beat me_ \- tunes, tunes - until I learned it," Pierre whined.

"How cruelly we mistreat you," Adrienne said, smacking Pierre on the rear. Pierre dissolved into smiles. Then she put the melodica's tube in her mouth.

Alexander raised his hand like he was in class. "Uh, about some of these lyrics..."

"The three main members of the band perform as eccentric steam-powered robots," John explained. "It's Steam Powered Giraffe."

"Oh. That makes much more sense."

Adrienne wasn't the best at discussing feelings directly. It wasn't one of her many gifts. So over a year ago, when at a loss for what else to do to help John in Lafayette's absence, she'd coaxed him into watching their music videos. She liked their facility with makeup. How they included lyrics under every single video. How they enunciated well. How their trans member had been accepted by her fellow members and fans after she "upgraded". How they were silly, yet also good at singing about feelings. She started with the first song she'd ever shown him:

...And what is this leaking affecting my eye?  
Does the oil that is dripping mean this is a cry?  
Will I ever be something with feelings to hide?  
Or am I just a boiler with nothing inside?

As they went into the next song (wow, he really did know all the words), he came to realize that Adrienne was addressing him directly.

...Lately your love of life has been fading,  
And we can't see you that way.  
We'll try to get you back on your feet -  
Just tap your toes to the beat.  
It'll be alright, it'll be alright, you're not in this alone....

She'd taught Pierre one of the harmony parts, not the melody. Sneaky of her. John started choking up with they got to:

...It's never as simple as it seems  
And they will never know.  
I found a way into your heart,  
I found a way into your heart...

Finally she played one of their sillier, up-tempo songs, and John was grateful. Also it really drove home why Alexander was confused without context. 

...There's a fire burning in our souls!  
If we put it out then we'll all run cold  
So cut yourself down from the noose that's swingin'  
And reattach your arm so we can get gunslingin'!

...So blast off, let's make what's theirs our own,  
The universe is ours to roam  
And together we're not alone across the stars.

"That's an amazing present, thank you," John said. Adrienne gave a cheerful little curtsey in response.

Alexander cleared his throat. "I got you a plush manatee. It's in the house. With a certificate of symbolic adoption. Money goes to protecting their habitat."

The only reason John's hug wasn't fiercer was his concern for Alexander's physical condition.

While the two of them were still hugging, Pierre said, "I printed you a voucher for me paying your transportation expenses when we go visit Alexander together. And possibly Try4Bly."

"Join the hug," John commanded.

*****

John asked for a moment alone with Lafayette in the garden. The others decided to get dinner ready. 

"Laf." John rarely called him that, and it made Lafayette instinctively step closer.

"Yes?"

"I thanked you for caring, the first time you came specifically to see me. The day after your birthday. I said I wouldn't say more until I meant it."

Lafayette didn't seem to be breathing. John needed to hurry on before his friend fell over. He put a steadying arm around him.

"Thank you. Thank you for stopping me. Thank you for saving my life and sending me to so many good people, and giving me back things I thought I'd never have again. Not just my friendship with Martian. Alexander, Pierre, Lewis, so many of the other patients and staff...Washington, Hercules, Angelica, Eliza...And my tastebuds and my laughter and I...Thank you. Thank you."

A few minutes later, Lafayette managed to say, "I am glad I am not too attached to dignity. Do you have a tissue?"

"I've learned to be prepared for moments like this," John said, pulling out one for each of them.

*******

Then dinner, cake, stories, and Pierre complaining that nobody was letting him have wine.

(Laf: "It's not your age, mon petit, I don't care about the American law. It's how easily you get drunk and unable for...ah...proper consent.")

(Adrienne: "Even Gilbert and I are stopping at one glass. Despite how, unlike you, we didn't leave the land of everyday wine when we were seven. My parents believe drinking is morally wrong, but as a teen I successfully argued that I should be allowed to drink with getting drunk.")

(Alexander: "It's really unfair that you guys are going on like this when everyone who wants to hook up with me is either in DC, New York, or Austria.")

(John: "Wait, what?")

(Alexander: "Pro poker player who commented on my blog post about gambling and state revenue. Antoinette's strictly long-distance. Funny coincidence, though. Vienna.")

Given the choice of the pull-out couch and bunking with John at his place, Alexander chose the latter. Despite the mutual agreement that sex was not on the table. "Sex on tables is overrated," Pierre had commented, prompting everyone else to call him a brat, and a punning one to boot.

"That couch has weird springs," Alexander explained as he put his coat on. This time it was John helping him, after weeks of the other way around. "Also I would be so in the way, don't you dare deny it. I'll come back tomorrow for the car and stuff. Don't want to figure out parking when we don't have to walk far."

Hugs, kisses on cheeks, promises not to stay away too long. Adrienne piled John with so many leftovers that he needed to borrow a reusable grocery bag. The manatee's head poked out.

"Is your shoulder still tender?" Alexander asked as they set off into the chilly night. 

"Yeah. Also it got hit by a wild baseball two days ago. Hold this for me? I want to put my gloves on."

Alexander laughed and shook his head. "It's like you've got a reverse Achilles' heel. It's your lighting rod. What doesn't kill you hurts your shoulder."

"Want to hold hands?"

"Sure."

"Antoinette, huh?"

"I'm back with my ex, too, at least in theory. Who-I-knew-as-Paul was actually serious about 'I love you, I promise, I'm just dealing with some stuff right now.' Pauline's much more secure with herself. Says she's ready to try again. Goes by Polly. I'm taking it as a sign."

John hummed in approval. "So poor Thom Pinckney will get full disclosure?"

"Thumb Pinky, as I like to call him when I think he'll tolerate it, appreciates my new efforts to be mature and responsible about my feelings." Alexander steered John around a puddle. "He ran screaming from South Carolina too, did you know?"

"I hope he doesn't look like me as well. That would be unhealthy."

"Being responsible and mature about my feelings includes acknowledging when they don't fit anywhere neatly, and making it work." 

Looking at his (it didn't matter) and feeling (it didn't have to be named) John just said, "Story of our lives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facts and links:
> 
> It's thanks to another fic in the series I'm guest-starring in that I know A.Ham had recurring malaria symptoms all his life. Malaria is extremely rare throughout the U.S (including Puerto Rico) in this day and age, so I went with something else in tribute.
> 
>  
> 
> [The first SPG song is "Brass Goggles".](http://youtu.be/dDRHx4cPgbE)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [The second SPG song is "A Way Into Your Heart". It's actually them singing to the fans.](http://youtu.be/m7G1bkjJO2Q)
> 
>  
> 
> ["The Stars" is post Isabella "Bunny" Bennett/Rabbit the Robot's transition, in case you're wondering who that gorgeous automaton is.](http://youtu.be/Iw3nssdp-0I)
> 
>  
> 
> *****
> 
> What a journey. What. A. Journey. But as you know, this 'verse is not over. I will basically update whichever sequel I happen to have written a chapter for, since they don't depend on each other. My update pace will inevitably slow down. Not that you mind, just letting you know. I have tons of ideas. It's only a matter of time.
> 
> I would also like to thank the staff and almost all fellow patients at those three particular wards. Especially the second one for providing the concept and name of Sharps Hour.
> 
> So much love. For these characters, and even more for all of you. I wouldn't have done so much, so fast, so well, without you.


End file.
